


Part III: Fly Away

by FandomN00b



Series: Lost and Found: The Misadventures of Marian Hawke and Everyone She Meets [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders is dead :( and I miss him so much, F/F, F/M, Fade sex dreams (are there any other?), Fenris is an abuse survivor, Fenris still can't stand being touched, Hawke can't stand not being touched, Lost and Found DA2 endgame canon divergence, M/M, Multi, Post-Dragon Age II, dubious consent (because they're both asleep?), friends to lovers to parents...oh shit, literal ship fic, slowish burn for FenHawke, so do Hawke and Fenris, so this will totally work right?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-10-22 09:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomN00b/pseuds/FandomN00b
Summary: Isabela, Merrill, Varric, and Fenris managed to drag Hawke's broken-hearted ass from the steps of the Chantry and flee from Kirkwall on Isabela's new ship, while Kirkwall quickly descended into the chaos of what would later be called 'The Mage Rebellion' (SeeIandIIof this series if you want to relive that trauma).Realizing that no one is pursuing them, they sail aimlessly around the Waking Sea and into the Amaranthine Ocean for a while, as Hawke and her friends grieve the loss of Anders and any hope they had left in the lives they had built for themselves in Kirkwall. Fenris and Hawke grow especially close in their grief, and through Fenris' dreams.





	1. Broken Silence

**Author's Note:**

> This shit is going to get a little weird. Cuz the Fade. And cuz everyone's bored and miserable. It's not like, fun, kinky weird, but...just...well, you'll see if you are able to get through all the crappy writing about feelings and stuff. I will also put explicit warnings in the notes before any chapter that features descriptions of sex, real or imagined or Fadey. That way, you can skip over those parts (or straight to them).
> 
> You do not need to read the previous parts of this series in order to get the gist. The most important divergence from canon here is that Anders blew himself up with the Chantry ([Part I: Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530383/chapters/33572619)), and Aveline (and Bethany, and some other people...) was left to deal with Meredith and the mages and Templars and stuff ([Part II: Those Who Remain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17281457/chapters/40643084)). Everything else is just self-indulgent filler, I guess.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke finally speaks. She says some not nice things. Then apologizes. Then tries to make out with Fenris. Feelings are hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex happens in this chapter! Just a lot of angst.

\---

Even Isabela was solemn and quiet those first few days on the open sea, the one place in the world where she usually felt the most care-free. They’d been vigilant the first night and most of the next day, sailing east, parallel with the coast, as quickly as the wind would allow and taking turns watching for other ships to evade. But other than the occasional merchant ship passing by en route from Ferelden to the Free Marches or back, things had been dreadfully uneventful, giving them all plenty of time to wallow in despair.

Aveline had either been a convincing enough liar, or the shit had gotten so bad between the mages and Templars after the destruction of the Chantry that no one could be bothered with trying to hunt them down. If either of them had to put money on it, Varric and Isabela both would’ve bet on the latter. Aveline was a terrible liar.

Either way, there seemed to be nobody in pursuit, so their mission was rather straightforward, requiring little deliberation: stay away from Kirkwall until the mages or the Templars or both had destroyed each other or burned it to the ground. After that, no one was quite sure what the plan was, but it seemed pointless to try and figure _that_ out until the dust had settled and they knew more about the fate of their smoldering city.

The uncertainty _was_ a bit stifling, though. During the day, they only really spoke as necessary in order to keep the ship afloat with their skeleton crew. There were solemn nods, knowing glances, even some comforting shoulder grasps or embraces when no words seemed fitting enough to help them process what had happened. But Hawke had been the biggest hugger of the group, and although she seemed to have recovered enough to lend a hand with the sailing, she had not really spoken another word to any of them, not even Merrill, whose huge saucer eyes seemed to constantly search her, begging for some reassurance that everything was going to be alright. When she wasn’t needed up above, she kept to herself in her cabin below deck, or stared out into the empty mists from some quiet, lonely part of the ship, still seemingly lost in her own overwhelming brokenness.

Fenris had been watching her from a distance, trying to keep the promise he’d made to Aveline, and an unspoken, unacknowledged promise he’d kept to himself for the better part of a decade. But he hadn’t dared to try to speak with her about what had happened, even though he’d continued to sleep across the room from her at night. He wasn’t sure what he was watching for, or what he could do to help, other than to physically restrain her from throwing herself overboard. Maybe that was all any of them could do for her as she took this time to grieve.

After the first night, once they realized no one would be coming after them, they started dropping anchor after sundown, as they were no longer in any hurry to get to any particular place, and ate dinner together in the galley -- whatever fish they’d been able to catch that day, hardtack biscuits, and preserved meats and fruits and vegetables from the ship’s larder, which had come almost fully-supplied when Isabela had claimed the ship for her own. Someone might try to make polite conversation every now and then to lighten the mood, but Hawke remained mostly unresponsive, and her uncharacteristic silence seemed to fall like a miserable blanket on them all. After eating a few bites, she would inevitably get up and leave without a word, while the others might talk quietly about whatever they could think of to keep from dwelling on all the grief and uncertainty.

Three days into this unsettling quiet, as they sat silently and munched their bland evening meal of fish and pickled yams, everyone except Hawke staring awkwardly at one another over the ship’s galley table, Varric finally broke the stifling silence that had become unbearable, even for Fenris.

“You should really talk about it, Hawke. You can’t just keep staring into the abyss and moping around like this forever!”

“Varric is right,” Fenris agreed. It was an odd show of support from the broody elf, who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and usually seemed barely able to tolerate the practice from others.

“Maybe we just all need to get drunk!” Isabela was just relieved that talking was now a thing they were doing again with Hawke in the room.

“Oh, it’s booze we’ve been lacking! Of course! And here, I thought everyone was so gloomy because Blondie went and blew himself and half of Kirkwall up!” Varric was so eager for an opportunity to make light of their situation, even if it still hurt. Humor, and particularly sarcasm, had always been part of the healing process for Hawke. He gave a small nod of gratitude and a wink to Fenris and Isabela for the support.

“I’ve got some really good stuff in my quarters, in the super secret spot I keep all my prized possessions...booze, chocolate, fabulous trinkets…and hats!” Isabela excitedly stood up from the table, ready to share it all, even the hats, if it would help them overcome this oppressive silence.

“Where do you keep your sex toys, Rivaini?” Varric was on a roll, it seemed.

“They make toys for that?!” Merrill squeaked, then blushed at the sound of her own voice. She’d almost forgotten what she sounded like out loud. It did not match the voice she heard in her head. Not at all.

“Why? Bianca not doing it for you anymore, Varric? And Merrill...sweet, wonderful Merrill...please _do_ come by my cabin some time, Kitten...”

“How dare you! This baby is the finest in Dwarven craftsmanship. She could make a Dwarven eunuch hard!”

“But if he’s a eunuch, what part of him gets hard?” Merrill, still blushing, blushed even harder.

Fenris cleared his throat, quickly coming to regret that he’d somehow encouraged this. “There may be more urgent matters to discuss than all of your...proclivities. We need to figure out what we’re doing, where we’re going. And what the consequences for our complicity in Anders’ crimes may be.”

“What’s the matter, Broody? Already sick of being on the run again?”

Fenris really wished Varric would tone it down, just a little. “I’ve been on the run for the majority of a decade, and actually find it quite...comfortable. I just think we need to acknowledge our current situation instead of further distracting ourselves.”

Hawke had been staring silently at her plate as the four of them chattered on. No one had noticed her seething until a flood of heated words suddenly erupted out of her: “We all know how you felt about him, Fenris. You were right! Is that what you wanted to hear? From me?! Do you want me to tell you that I should have listened to your warnings, all those years ago, and then again, every time you came to me and told me you thought something terrible was looming on the horizon? Instead of dismissing you as paranoid or jealous? Well, congratulations! You were fucking right. And I’m an idiot. Anders was a danger to himself and everyone else in the end and I was completely unable to help him. I guess I should’ve known better than to believe a mage was capable of anything else. Should’ve been locked up, made tranquil, huh? Bethany, too, while we were at it! Would you have been happy with that?!”

Everyone was frozen, staring at her, and speechless, the jovial mood suddenly interrupted by this reminder of everything that had happened to bring them here to their current predicament.

She went on, “I loved him! And it made me a fool, and now everything is a fucking mess because I wanted him to be stronger than he could be. Stronger than even I could be. There. Now go back to your brooding and leave me to mine. I prefer you as tortured and angsty, not like this...pretending to care, acting like a regular ‘team player’ now that everything is ruined and lost.”

She stood up from the table without even taking a breath and stormed off.

Isabela, Varric, and Merrill were still stunned, but Fenris somehow seemed completely unaffected as he watched her leave, the same cool, calm expression on his face, just as he had looked when she drew her daggers on him immediately after the explosion on the steps of the Chantry three days ago. His lack of any perceptible reaction was unnerving to the rest of them, just as it had been to her then.

As her angry footsteps faded, Isabela was the first to realize she had been holding her breath and broke the silent, suffocating tension with a loud gasp.

“About that wine…?” Varric looked expectantly at Isabela.

“Yes, I will go and fetch it. Kitten, should I bring some toys for you to play with as well?”

“Errr, maybe AFTER the wine?”

“Ooooh...promises, promises!”

…

Fenris excused himself early, after only one glass of what Isabela insisted was her “good stuff.” It just didn’t have the fine, aged taste of Tevinter wine...perhaps not enough slaves had been beaten and bled to make it, he thought in disgust. Anyhow, it didn’t have the usual effect of putting him into a more chatty mood, which he knew they all preferred.

“Enjoy yourselves,” he said, standing up from the table.

“G’night, hun,” Isabela gave him a sympathetic little shrug that he tried to ignore.

He went straight to his room, opting not to check on Hawke or share her cabin tonight, for the obvious reason that she hated him. He was satisfied enough by her angry reaction at dinner that she seemed to have snapped out of her initial shock and was proceeding through the grieving process as best anyone could expect, however harsh her fury felt as she directed it at him. It was the least he could do, acting as a punching bag, after all she had done for him over the years.

He was in the middle of changing into the loose-fitting linen sleepclothes Isabela had given them all from the ship's supplies ("We can wear matching jammies and have slumber parties!"), when he heard an impatient knock on his door. He recognized it immediately. It was the same knock that had summoned him on countless missions through the years, into disgusting sewers and spider-filled caverns and traps laid by slavers and even haunted dreams in the Fade, but they’d always somehow survived. And so long as she continued to drag his ass along on her reckless pursuits, whatever or wherever those might take them now, he was convinced things would end up alright for them all. His heart leapt a little, in spite of the state she’d left them in earlier that evening, as he finished changing and quickly strode across the room to open the door.

Hawke had already given up on him and was halfway down the hall. She turned back around when she heard the door creak open, a strange mix of relief and devastation on her face.

“I’m sorry, Fenris. That was...I’ve been a total bitch, I know.”

He was speechless. As she got closer, he realized that she looked like she’d spent the past couple of hours since dinner crying.

“You are right. You _were_ right. And I know you’re trying to help. You’ve always just been trying to help. To protect me and our friends. I just..." her shoulders sagged, suddenly, reminding him of the way her whole body had given out on the steps of the ruined Chantry.

He prepared himself to catch her, but she steadied herself, and continued.

"...it stings. I can’t stop thinking about him. What he did...not to the Chantry or the Grand Cleric, but to me. To all of us! To himself. And now...well...I feel like everything is fucked. And I really do feel like an idiot. Like it’s all my fault. And I guess it is. It always is. But it’s just so much worse than any other time everything was all messed up because of me.”

“It’s not --” He tried to interrupt her, but she held her hand up. She wasn’t done.

“It fucking hurts worse than anything has ever hurt. Worse than my mother, worse than Bethany being taken to the Gallows or Carver almost dying in the Deep Roads because of me, even worse than my father dying! And even just _realizing_ that hurts. Like why should he matter more to me than my own fucking family?!" Her fists were balled up at her sides and he could feel the anger arcing off of her like raw magic from the Fade.

She inhaled. Then exhaled, flexing her fingers and letting her arms drop. She wasn't mad at  _him_. That was the whole point of coming to apologize, after all.

"What I’m trying to say is I’m sorry for taking that all out on you. You don’t deserve that.”

The words that had been churning and roiling inside of her for the past few days as she gazed out silent and heartbroken over the waves had come flooding out of her now. Fenris stood there, still inside the door, staring intently at her as she shuffled and avoided his undeservedly soft emerald gaze, awaiting some kind of acknowledgment. He might have been astonished if he hadn’t already learned long ago to always expect to be surprised by her.

He waited a few uncomfortable moments, just to be sure she was actually done speaking this time, and he collected his own thoughts before he spoke. “You had something very special with Anders.” Saying this caused him unexpected pangs of guilt and jealousy and heartbreak. He winced. Hearing it out loud made it seem stupid and inadequate.

“Maybe,” Hawke tried to look appreciative, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. “But it was naive of me to think that could have ever been enough to save him.”

“Yes. Probably.”

She could at least appreciate his honesty, though it certainly didn’t help make her feel any better about the situation. “I just keep replaying everything over and over again, hoping for some answers, wondering what I did wrong. What I could’ve changed. I just...miss him. So so much.” Tears were beginning to well up again in the corners of her ultramarine eyes, which looked all the more electric surrounded by the redness of the rest of her tortured face.

Fenris took a deep breath, about to take a risk in opening up about something he wasn’t sure either of them was ready for. “I do, too.”

He froze for a moment, eyeing her, trying to read her reaction. When she didn’t respond with violence, he stood up on his toes, leaned forward, and gently pressed his forehead against hers, wishing he had telepathic powers in order to convey the many things that he was incapable of finding words for. It was an impulsive physical gesture, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“I don’t know how or why, but I think I know you do,” she whispered, a heavy tear rolling down her cheek.

Without any warning, Hawke tipped her chin and leaned forward to kiss him, her hot, swollen lips taking in the unprepared coolness of his own. His mind suddenly went somewhere else entirely, places he’d tried hard to stay far away from for a very long time, but his recent dreams had insisted on bringing these things back to the forefront of his mind. And building upon them, to the point that he could barely remember what was a real memory and what his mind and the Fade had conjured for him.

…

It had been years since that first kiss between them. When things were simpler for all of them. His tenuous freedom had made him eager for vengeance, cocky, and foolish, but at least his life seemed straightforward then. He had one goal: kill Danarius, and anyone who stood in his way. She still had her mother, her sister free from the Circle, and Carver tagging along on all their adventures, and the worst thing they’d faced together had been Coterie thugs in the back alleys of Lowtown. Anders, while annoying, had not yet become obsessed with starting a war.

He was struck by the realization that he and Anders had been on reverse courses. Anders, who started out cynical, but easygoing, a gentle but competent healer, 'soft' in Fenris’ original estimation, warm and open, and also undisciplined, unfocused, and irreverent. Silly, even. He didn’t understand what she could have seen in him as a friend, a confidante, let alone a lover. Or perhaps he just didn’t want to admit that he wanted him, too.

Fenris, on the other hand, started out hardened, cruel, and immoveable, bent on destruction, fueled by his own unyielding desire for vengeance. He had gone to her estate to question her judgment as she placed her trust in an apostate with a spirit inhabiting him, hoping to convince her to turn the mage over to the Templars, and in the heat of a bitter argument, found his limbs intertwined with hers, their panting mouths pressed together as they gave in to sudden unexplored passions that neither were able to acknowledge when cooler heads prevailed before, or since.

Even after all these years, the occasional regrettable night at the Blooming Rose, all the work he’d done at uncovering his sensuality with Isabela, the discoveries about his past, and the unfulfilling death of his former master and torturers, he had not forgotten the surprising softness of her lips, the unexpected warmth and tenderness under Hawke’s sarcastic demeanor, and he had often wondered if there was any of that left or if Anders had used up all of that for himself, too. He thought back then that he could’ve pursued her, gathered all her love and affection for himself and no one else, maybe even preventing Anders from capturing her heart as thoroughly as he had, but then the dreams started, and he remembered all the pain, all the horrific things he’d done or had been done to him, and he realized he was broken. Too broken to hope for such a thing. Too afraid of ever allowing himself to be vulnerable again. He could never be the person Hawke would have needed him to be. He couldn’t even bear to let her hug him. He became even more obsessed with killing his former master then, believing that might somehow complete him or free him of this curse. So he tried to forget that kiss. Tried to forget his feelings for her. Tried to convince himself he was better off alone.

It had not been very different between him and Anders. An argument that suddenly turned into a hungry, furious kiss. Anger seemed to be the only thing that could unlock his affections. He found himself purposely trying to provoke the mage, hoping maybe for an opportunity to kiss him again, or just an excuse to finally kill him, to avoid _actually_ falling in love, just as he had feared with Hawke.

But Anders slowly began to change. His focus grew more distant, more cold, and he seemed to care less and less about what Fenris or even Hawke or anyone else thought as he devoted himself to a greater cause. He joked less, smiled less, teased less, seemed less free-spirited, and Fenris feared more and more what Anders was becoming, even though Hawke seemed to trust him, maybe _because_ she insisted on trusting him. As Anders slipped further and further away, it seemed that she was the only one who could reach him, make him laugh, bring him out of his new obsession with bringing down the Circle, the entire Templar Order, and the Chantry with it. Fenris couldn’t decide who he had grown more jealous of: Anders, for gaining Hawke’s love and admiration in spite of becoming a vengeful abomination, or Hawke, for being able to tame the chaos inside of Anders for so long. Wasn’t _he_ meant to be the brooding, tortured monster? They’d somehow switched places as Fenris slowly learned how to let down his guard, to enjoy small things, to _feel_ more than just anger and fear, in spite of himself. But he still struggled with physical affection. The fear and panic it incited within him, especially when it was someone he actually cared about, was still too much for him to overcome.

...

“Fenris…?”

“Hmmm?” He had drifted off into his own head prompted by this sudden unexpected show of affection from her.

How long had she been standing there, waiting, allowing herself to be vulnerable in her grief, and here he was, completely lost in memories and introspection. Still incapable of returning any gesture of comfort or affection.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, pulling away from him back into the hallway.

So many things. None of them her fault, but none of them things she could really understand, either. “I’m so sorry, Hawke...I can’t do this. I'm not him.”

“No. I understand. I’m just tired, and I’m feeling all kinds of things that aren’t real and don’t make any sense, and I’m sorry for assuming...I just thought -- nevermind. Now I’m just babbling.”

“It’s not what you think. I’m just not sure that I --”

“It’s ok!” She was getting more and more embarrassed by the second. She tried to smile, tried to laugh it off. She didn’t need anymore of an explanation from him. _No_ was sufficient. “I’m an idiot right now, and I’m sorry. Again.”

Everything inside of her was a jumbled mess. What had she been thinking? Fenris hated to be touched. She’d misread his little gesture, something she was sure he had done with great effort just to comfort her, as a friend, who had come to him in a state of duress, and she’d mistaken it as an invitation for more, like the clumsy brutish asshole that she was.

He could see her retreating within herself, ashamed, and he wanted to pull her back, because _he_ was certain that he was the one who should have been embarrassed. “Hawke…”

“What?”

He had nothing. He couldn’t just blurt out, _I love you, and I’ve loved you for years, and I want to be here for you and grieve for Anders with you, but I suck at being able to show it_ , which would have been the most accurate way to describe what was going on. But there was so much more to it than that, and he still needed to figure it all out for himself. So he just shrugged.

Hawke nodded. “Well, I just wanted to apologize, again, for being such a bitch earlier. And I guess, for being utterly ridiculous right now, too. So I did that. And now, I guess, this is g’night!” She turned, unsuccessfully trying to save the tiniest shred of what was left of her dignity before heading back to her room.

“Wait!” he said.

She stopped, turning around slowly. She was tired. She had exceeded the very limited supply of energy she had to think and feel for the day in order to come apologize, and she needed desperately to go to sleep and stay in bed forever, heart-broken and mortified.

“Would you like me to continue sleeping in your cabin?” he asked.

She looked at him curiously as she considered this offer. He may not have returned her affections, but he was still her friend, and she figured he wanted to support her in the ways that he could. “I would. Yes. But only if _you_ want to.” She didn’t want to be alone, that was for sure, but she didn’t want him to feel like _he_ had to be the one to keep her company.

“I think I would.”

He followed her out into the hallway in his nightclothes, which she hadn't even noticed until now, as they came into view in the gently swaying light of the lamps. It was the first time she'd ever seen him in something so loose and soft, and she laughed, mostly because she was still an exhausted, embarrassed, heartbroken mess. But also because she was so used to all his spikes and edges that stood up from his body, something Hawke usually took as a warning. Even when he wasn't in his armor, he almost always wore things with structure and sharp angles, jackets with sculpted shoulders and elbows, but now he just looked so...small wasn't the right word. He could never look _small_ , not knowing how powerful he was. But approachable, maybe?

"What?"

"I'm sorry! It's just...those ridiculous pajamas," she tried to stop herself from bursting into laughter again. She didn't want to embarrass him. Didn't want him to feel compelled to change out of them, either.

But he didn't seem to mind her laughter. Plus, it wasn't like he had anything else to wear. They'd left in too big a hurry to pack a change of clothes, let alone something to sleep in. "They're quite comfortable. You should try them," he smiled.

“Thank you for ‘looking after me,’” she smiled back, the sarcasm in her voice betrayed by the appreciation in her eyes. It was the first real smile he’d seen from her since the day they’d left Kirkwall.

“It was a promise.” His smile was nearly a grin now. “And Aveline would hunt me down and murder me if I didn’t keep it.”

\---


	2. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris are both dreaming/Dreaming about Anders...and then, they're suddenly not. And just in case you thought that would be nice for them, it's not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Some weird, uncomfortable, mutually-horrifying kind-of sex happens here and nobody's happy about it. It's definitely dubious consent, but not in the conventional sense.
> 
> Also, Fenris is an abuse survivor (sexual or otherwise). Who also believes that he's a horrible monster.

\---

“Maker, yes! Give me all your blighted demon babies!” Hawke cried out between fits of laughter as she felt Anders throbbing inside of her again. He grunted through a few more desperate pumps and filled her with whatever was left of his seed for the third time that night.

“We’re doing cruel sarcasm during sex now, too? Is _nothing_ sacred to you, love?” he huffed, pretending to be offended, but incapable of containing his exhausted grin as he rolled off to her side.

They were trying to get pregnant. And they were putting his so-called ‘Warden stamina’ to full use tonight because Hawke was ovulating. It wasn’t exactly the most _romantic_ sex they’d ever had, but they’d allowed themselves to believe it was still a possibility back then, Taint be damned, so they’d taken it up with enthusiasm.

Even Justice had been somehow convinced, before things had gotten so terribly grim, that it wouldn’t have been such an awful thing to have a child, or, as he so delicately put it, ‘spawn.’ Someone to introduce to the brave new world they all hoped to build together. He knew how happy it would make Anders, at least, to have the chance to be the kind of father he’d never had, so he tried not to interfere in their strange reproductive habits.

“Justice was right, though, wasn’t he? This was just another promise I made to you and then broke, my love…” he whispered, as he trailed his fingers across her abdomen, his magic tingling through her womb.

Well, this was certainly _not_ how she remembered it.

“Another reason to let me go...” His voice was distant, the familiar feel of his touch fading.

_Oh._

She was waking up.

_No no no no no...come back! This isn’t over. Please come back! You have to come back!_

She’d been having dreams about him since they left Kirkwall. Anders...and strangely, sometimes Fenris, too. Dreams about the three of them altogether sometimes, a whole life together that they’d never actually had, though these were usually half-formed, strange, not nearly as vivid as the one she was having right now, a cherished memory that had shifted too quickly into heartbreaking realization.

She knew none of it was real. She knew there was still anger and pain and grief and mourning to do in the waking world, and that she’d have to start talking to her friends again eventually without yelling at them and storming off, but she couldn't deal with that right now. She could barely even force herself out of bed and up above into the harsh reality of the daylight most of the time. So these dreams were a welcome, if not ultimately devastating, escape.

How _dare_ her own dreams turn against her and deprive her of even _this_ temporary comfort.

She rolled over on top of him, straddling his hips underneath, stubbornly determined to remain there in her dream with him, to hold him and never let go again. She was delighted to find that he was still hard. This was more like how she wanted to remember it, at least.

“One more?” she asked. “All me this time...”

“It’s _your_ dream, my love…” he shrugged up at her, those warm amber eyes of his looking entirely too sad and defeated for her liking. It was another cruel reminder from her subconscience. It seemed she hadn’t quite beaten it into submission yet.

_I know he’s gone!_

She rocked her hips against him anyway, nudging him into position with her pelvis, trying to ignore the part of her mind that was telling her to wake up.

“I want...I need…” she pleaded to him, pleaded to the dream to just keep going, pleaded with her whole body. “Please, Anders! Just a little more time here with you...”

Then, she froze.

She’d been talking out loud. Her real waking ears had heard it. And she could only assume, since he’d been sleeping in the same room now for the past few nights, that Fenris had heard it, too.

_Shit._

Her eyes flashed open, completely blind in the dark. But so did his. And to her horror, they were right there in front of her. Two glowing green orbs of light blinking back at her. _He_ was right there, their bodies pressed together, perspiration making Hawke’s thin cotton nightshirt stick and cling to her. Like cobwebs. She shuddered. She’d kicked off her pants and undergarments in her sleep, and they were twisted around her legs and ankles, hopelessly tangled up in his.

_Shit shit shit shit shit!_

Both of them were still reeling from the lingering sensations of whatever had just happened between them. They were confused, disoriented.

It had just been a dream, hadn’t it? But then, it clearly hadn’t been, since their physical bodies showed every sign of having just done what they thought was only happening in the privacy of their own slumbering minds.

“Fenris!” she exhaled. “I -- ”

But he couldn’t hear her. He couldn’t even move. His blood was still pumping, flushing out the ecstasy with panic rushing into every part of him now, but he was afraid what might happen if he dared to move. His lyrium markings began to glow and burn as he fought against the urge to use them. He wanted to get as far away from her as he could, to run and hide from whatever he’d just done to her in his sleep as he dreamt of fucking the mage, whatever he might do to her now in his panic, but he was frozen. Paralyzed by shame and anger and fear.

Hawke hastily freed herself from the tangle of clothing and limbs and moved away from him. She stood up from the little bed they had somehow come to share without even realizing what was happening, and tried to get decent, tried to calm herself, tried not to stare at him. Maker, she was _horrible._

With her out of arm’s reach, he was finally able to move enough to turn away from her and curl up against the wall, at least. He couldn’t face her. He couldn’t look back into her eyes and see what she thought of him now. A monster, finally revealed to her. In spite of all her stubborn attempts over the years to see him and treat him as a person, as a friend, surely now she could finally see what he really was.

“I didn’t…” she started, but she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t _what?_ Realize she was fucking _him_ in her sleep? That seemed like an absurd and wholly inadequate thing to say, even if it was true.

Whispering “Shit!” was the best she could come up with to fill the tense silence.

“It’s my fault,” he finally muttered, clenching his arms dangerously tight around his own body, trying to restrain himself from whatever other horrible things he was capable of. If he wasn’t careful, he could end up phasing through himself, impaling himself with his own hands. Not that he didn’t think he deserved that.

“Surely, it’s not,” Hawke argued. She had ended up in _his_ bed, after all. She wanted to apologize, but she wasn’t quite sure _what_ had happened. She was still just trying to get her bearings. Maybe this was still a dream. Well, a sort of nightmare, really, but she found herself allofasudden actually _wishing_ she could wake up from this one to find herself alone in _her_ bed, and him still snoring softly on the other side of the room.

“No. It is. My dreams -- they are...apparently more than just dreams to me. I should never have put you at risk by sleeping in such close proximity.”

“Hold on. Wait a minute...”

Fenris exhaled impatiently. “I was dreaming about having sex, Hawke. I keep dreaming about... _things_. And when I wake up, it’s hard to keep track of what’s real and what’s...wishful thinking leftover from the Fade.”

She finally allowed herself to look up at him, blinking in disbelief. “Me too.”

“You what?” He turned his head back towards her, still pressed against the wall, but he was trying to understand what she’d said, or, more precisely, what she’d meant by it.

“I’ve been having those kinds of dreams, too,” she confessed.

“How is _that_ possible?” Fenris wasn’t sure he actually believed her. _Maybe_ she’d been having nightmares or dreams about Anders, but surely not the kinds of intricate re-imaginings of an alternate life together that he’d been having.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” she shrugged. This didn’t seem to bother her nearly as much as it should have. She had always seemed more comfortable with the ambiguity of the Fade, though. It must’ve come from living her life surrounded by friendlier magic. The kind that _wasn’t_  used to manipulate and enslave others.

His markings had begun to fade a little. The harsh white that had filled the room, exposing their transgressions, gave way to a more gentle, forgiving blue. She watched as his whole body began to relax. And she found her own breath deepening, her heart racing a little less.

“In your dream, were you and Anders -- ?” He stopped. He shouldn’t have even dared to ask. What business was it of his to inquire about her private dreams? Especially after such a violation of her physical person.

“Yeah,” Hawke winced. “Sorry…” She wanted to make a joke, as was her cursed nature at times of grave discomfort, but she resisted. For his sake.

“You can’t apologize for what your mind does when you’re asleep.”

“But _you_ can?

“It wasn’t just my mind, though.”

It wasn’t just hers, either! But she could tell arguing with him about who had forced themself upon whom was probably pointless.

And it wouldn’t have helped to try and parse out the details of their half-conscious encounter. She could still feel the sensation of him inside of her, even though she was trying desperately to stop thinking about it. It had been a mistake, a horrible, unforgivable breach in her long-standing commitment to honor his need for personal space, and the last thing she wanted was to remember it with any sort of longing. Fenris’ obvious revulsion at what had just happened made it clear how he felt about her.

His lyrium brands had faded enough that the room was mostly dark again. It was a relief to both of them, for a variety of reasons. He uncurled himself from the wall and sat up in the bed, facing her now. She heard him take a very deep breath. “I am not the person you’ve been seeing in your dreams, Hawke.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you understand.”

“I know you _hate_ being touched, Fenris. Especially by me. And I know that whatever we have in these dreams never happened. And I know saying ‘I’m sorry’ couldn’t even possibly begin to make up for what I just did to you. But I --”

“No.”

“No?”

“Stop apologizing. It’s...infuriating.”

”I’m sorry...shit!” She couldn’t. “I’ll just leave, then?”

“No!” He reached towards her, without even thinking, then quickly pulled his arms back around himself. “Just…give me a minute to think. Please.”

“Ok.”

She stood there awkwardly, looking at the ground, at the wall, at the ceiling when all else failed. She wanted to give him the privacy he’d requested. The silence. But not talking was hard in moments like this. She’d been not talking to almost everyone for several days now, but it was much easier when she could hide and feel sorry for herself, instead of feeling terrible about hurting someone else. Especially when it was him.

Mercifully, Fenris finally seemed to have collected his thoughts. “Those dreams are who I _want_ to be...at least the ones I have with you and Anders in them. Who I wish I could be. Who I maybe could have been. But not who I _am_ , unfortunately.”

Hawke was speechless for a moment, contemplating this. It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love. More an acknowledgment of regret. “You told me you missed him, but I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about him.”

“How could you? How could anyone when I did everything I could to make it seem like I couldn’t stand him?”

“And me, too?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything? We might have -- ”

“Because these damn -- !” He grunted as his lyrium markings flared suddenly bright again, casting a terrifying glow on his face as it twisted into anguish. “BECAUSE _HE_ MADE ME INTO THIS... _MONSTER,_ INSTEAD!”

Hawke didn’t know what to say or do. She wasn’t nearly as afraid of him as he was of himself, even though she knew what he was capable of. If it had been Anders, full of self-loathing and fear and anger like this, she’d have just wrapped her arms around him and told him he was wrong until he gave in. She wished she still could do that for him. But it hadn’t been enough in the end, anyway. And it certainly wasn’t what Fenris needed right now. He wasn’t begging her to convince him he was wrong like Anders had so often seemed to be.

But he _was_ wrong, maybe even _more_ than Anders had ever been.

“You are _not_ a monster,” she said, quietly.

“I wish I could believe that,” he muttered.

“Me too,” she whispered. Were this anyone else, this would’ve been the moment where she reached for his hand. Where they might kiss tenderly, or just hold each other and cry together in their shared grief. But this was Fenris. With whom, not minutes before, she’d awoken mid-coitus, all sweaty and sticky and horrified. So all the sweet, melancholy, touchy-feely stuff just seemed so...inadequate. Not to mention she knew he couldn’t stand it. He could barely even stand being in the same room as her at the moment, even if, as he said, he _wished_ he _could’ve been_ the kind of person who might have been more to her.

“I’ll find another room to sleep in.”

“You don’t have to!”

“Yes. I do.”

...

“I noticed you’re back in your own room,” Isabela said with a sad little pout as he emerged from below decks to help hoist the anchors and set sail the next morning.

The morning sun was harsh, streaming condemnation upon him, and even Isabela’s silhouette couldn’t seem to block out enough of it as it reflected in from every direction off the glistening sea. It was a good excuse not to look up at her, anyway, as she leaned closer to him, waiting for an explanation.

“Yes,” was all he offered her.

Isabela’s pout faded into a more sympathetic expression. _Something_ must have happened.

“Hawke tell you to fuck off?”

“It’s just better for everyone if I sleep alone. With the door locked.”

“I see,” she looked curiously at him, then lowered her voice so nobody else could hear. “Are you dreaming again, Fenris?”

“Yes.”

There was no point in lying to her. She already knew. It was just a courtesy to him that she even asked. She knew him better than anyone else, knew of his feelings for Hawke _and_ Anders long before he was even fully aware of them himself, and she knew how trauma like this could send him spiralling.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Yes. Of course he did. But how could he explain what had happened? She was sympathetic to his history, his never-ending struggle to come to terms with what had been done to him, what had been taken away, what he was constantly trying to recover, but even _she_ would probably be horrified by what he’d done.

Isabela straightened up, returning to her normal triumphant timbre. “Well, if you do, you know my door is always open to you. Just make sure you knock so Merrill has a chance to put some clothes on.”

Merrill looked up at them from her knot-tying, a flush of dark pink beginning to spread from one tip of her ear to the other.

“ _Vhenan_!”

Isabela only pretended to lower her voice again. “She is really lovely, isn’t she? Especially when she’s embarrassed, but she is quite shy about being seen naked, so…”

“ _Isabela! Please!_ I am _right here!_ ”

In spite of her protesting, the little elf clearly enjoyed this. She was playing right along with the ruse, over-acting being bashful, tilting her head, fluttering her giant eyes up at Isabela.

Fenris rolled his eyes at the two of them and scoffed. They seemed to be dealing with their current miserable situation quite well. _Good for them_ , he supposed.

“Right. Sorry, Kitten!” she winked, half at him, half at Merrill.

Fenris had no intention of taking her up on her offer, even though he knew he probably should. The ship was too confining. They were all practically on top of each other. There was nowhere to escape to. To be alone. To think. To breathe. It was going to be hard enough avoiding Hawke, and she mostly remained hidden away in her room or tucked into the stern of the ship, staring out across the sea behind them. If he confided to Isabela what he’d done, he might have to avoid her, too, as a matter of survival. She was fiercely protective of her friends, after all. He didn’t want to think about who she’d choose if she felt that he might be a threat to any of the rest of them. Especially Hawke. And she might tell the others. Not as gossip, but as a warning. For their own safety. What if Hawke told them? What if _Varric_ found out…

Well, it certainly wouldn’t be long before he was tied up or thrown overboard. And this was probably for the best.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! lol...not.
> 
> Seriously, though, I was going to call this chapter "Nocturnal Confessions," but I just couldn't commit to the cringeyness when it was such an honestly angsty thing.
> 
> Bed-sharing as a trope is fun, sexy dreams can also be fun, but absolutely none of this is 'fun' for Hawke or Fenris right now.


	3. A Friendly Nudge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela confronts Fenris about Hawke...and reminds him of the promise he made to Aveline before they left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex here...just two people awkwardly talking and not talking about it.

\---

Fenris had waited to emerge from his own room until he thought everyone else had found things to busy themselves with for the day. He didn’t want to risk running into Hawke as she wandered around the ship like a ghost, or have to endure another grilling from Isabela about why he was avoiding Hawke, or to have to look into Merrill’s big searching eyeballs, or receive a questioning glare from Varric. He made his way cautiously up the steps, blinking back the sun’s blinding rays and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the anchors had already been pulled up, the sails let loose, and the rest of the sloop’s rigging taken care of for the morning. They’d all gotten very efficient at this, and apparently, everyone had already dispersed, occupied with their own individual activities.

“Sleeping in now, too?”

He cringed. Isabela was up in the crow’s nest, looking down at him with what he could only imagine was a wicked grin. He had forgotten to look _up_ , not that he’d have been able to see her in the sudden brightness he would have encountered if he had.

She leapt down to meet him, swinging most of the way down from the rigging and landing gracefully on the boom in front of him. “It isn’t like you to miss an anchor-hoisting, Fenris. May need to downgrade you to second or third mate. Don’t worry, though, Varric will always be fourth. He refuses to lift a finger, even though this was _his_ idea to begin with!

“Sorry…?”

“It’s fine. Merrill managed to do some crazy nature magic thing to make the water do most of the heavy lifting, so I guess we don’t even really need you and your lyrium muscles anymore.”

Fenris watched her warily as she took out her dagger and began cleaning the dirt out from under her fingernails. Was this her way of telling him she’d found out about him and Hawke? Had Hawke told her? Or maybe she just knew him well enough to put it all together.

She let out an exasperated sigh, and he braced himself for what he was sure was coming.

“Fine. Don’t talk to me, but you’ve got to talk to _her_ , at least, and work out whatever it is between you two.”

She still had no idea, apparently.

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” he muttered.

“But she was finally beginning to perk up a little! And now...I mean, just look at her!”

Isabela waved her dagger toward the other end of the ship, where Hawke was standing slumped over the railing, staring out at the sea behind them. He hadn’t even noticed her until now, she was so still, almost lifeless. She _did_ look pretty miserable.

Fenris shook his head. “It’ll only make things worse.”

“What? Impossible. Things are about as bad for her as they could be.”

He took a deep breath. He had _not_ intended to tell her, or anyone else for that matter, what had prompted him to suddenly stop sharing a room with Hawke, but if it would convince her that he was not the one she should be putting in charge of cheering her up...

“The night before last, we both woke up, in the same bed, dreaming about _him_ , and I -- we…” If she decided to turn her dagger on him now, so be it. “We were having intercourse,” he blurted out.

To his surprise, she didn’t immediately recoil in alarm or fly into a murderous rage or accuse him of emotionally or physically violating one of her best friends.

“Sorry, what?” She blinked. “You two were fucking? _In your sleep_?! That’s so…”

“Horrifying?”

“Not the first word that came to mind. I like _titillating_ , personally, but more importantly, are you okay?”

He just stood there in disbelief. Why wasn’t she more bothered by this? How could nobody else see what a danger it was to have him on board? The risk he posed to all of their safety in such close quarters?

“Fenris…are _you_ okay?” she repeated more deliberately, snapping her fingers in front of him to keep him from drifting off into his own head. It would have been rude, if it wasn’t exactly what he needed sometimes to keep him from wallowing in his own self-loathing.

“What? Yes. I mean, no, I’m not. But that’s hardly -- “

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m just so…” he grunted, absolutely frustrated with everyone and everything. “It’s these blighted dreams again! Fucking Anders! It’s his fault. Ever since we left…”

“Yeah. It’s been a lot for you to deal with, hasn’t it?”

He shot her a glare. He knew she didn’t mean to sound so condescending. He knew she really probably _had_ been worrying about him while he refused to speak with her these past few days. But he hated the idea of unpacking any of this. It was too much. Left to fester for too long. He’d gotten so out of practice since they’d stopped with their regular ‘sessions’ months ago, he just wanted to avoid it altogether. Forever, if he could.

“Oh come off it! You know I worry about you! And everybody needs _somebody_ to give a shit about them. Even _you_.”

She smiled warmly at him, no longer teasing or mocking him, just inviting him to let her be a friend. His best friend, even. He didn’t need to beat himself up about beating himself up. She could do that for him. But she could also be a damn good listener if he needed that, too.

“It’s just that before, when I would have dreams, I was completely alone in Danarius’ mansion. No risk of acting anything out on anyone else. What happened two nights ago was bad enough, but what if I had been dreaming about killing Danarius or Hadriana or...worse? I shouldn’t be anywhere near Hawke or anyone so long as I keep having them.”

“That makes sense, but I reject your conclusion,” she said, matter-of-factly, and returned her attention to her fingernails.

“What? Have you not been listening at all?”

“Hawke is tough. She can take a lot of shit. You know this. She is _fond_ of you, too. You know that as well. And as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never hurt anyone you didn’t intend to. And definitely never anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

He glared at her again.

“I said ‘as long as _I’ve_ known you,’ and that was different. You were under the command of a sadistic monster.”

“And now I’ve become one.”

“No. I thought we’d gotten rid of that whole ‘I’m just a monster and I’ll never be anything else,’ bullshit years ago? Remember the feathers?! AND THE CORSETS, FENRIS! Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our matching best friend corsets?!” She reached up and grasped his shoulders in mock desperation.

He waved a hand dismissively and shook her off of him. She was not going to distract him with silly memories from Kirkwall and her dramatic histrionics. Besides, those corsets were probably burnt up or buried under ten feet of ash and debris now.

“You know it’s not that easy. You know it never will be,” he sighed.

“I know, hun. You know I do. But let me at least _try_ to slap some sense back into you. Gently, of course,” she grinned. “As the closest thing you’ll ever have to a therapist, I know how sensitive you are.”

Fenris rolled his eyes at her. “I’m glad I never paid you for any of this ‘therapy.’ I’m still quite broken it seems, after six whole years of your... _services_.”

“I believe the word you were looking for was _friendship_. And well, _you’re_ the one who stopped coming to see me about this stuff. Everything just got so grim these past few months, didn’t it? And I certainly can’t be blamed for Anders’ actions. But I _am_ sorry it’s fucked you up something awful. And that I didn’t bother you about it all sooner.”

“I really wish people would stop apologizing to me,” he snarled through gritted teeth.

“Very well. Let’s just talk about the sex, then?”

“Can we not?”

“I just need to know a few key details...”

“No.”

“You won’t even tell me who was on top?”

“Why does this matter?”

“It was Hawke, wasn’t it? Because of course it was. How did she react when you both woke up?”

“Scared, maybe...embarrassed? Just overall...bad. Everything was horrible.”

“Hmm...interesting.”

Fenris exhaled irritably. “She is somehow convinced that _she_ violated me because we ended up in my bed. She apologized profusely until I told her to stop. And then I -- I told her how I felt about Anders. And her. And then I left. And we haven’t spoken since.”

“It sure sounds like _she_ sleep-humped _you_ , if you ask me. Should I make her walk the plank? That’s what I’ve done in the past if any of my crew got out of line…”

“ _She_ wasn’t the one who was out of line.”

Fenris watched with a mix of disgust and horror as Isabela finished digging at her fingernails and began picking at her teeth with the same filthy dagger.

“Ok, tell me more about banging Anders, then, in your dream.”

“Stop. This is all embarrassing enough without you imagining every detail. This isn’t like -- ”

“Like the stuff I used to write about Lord Sparrow and Andrea? No, I don’t suppose it is. But you really should consider reading it. Luckily, I’ve got most of my old notebooks on board. I’ve been told by a _very_ reliable source that it’s fairly accurate if you wish to get a more intimate glimpse of their relationship.”

“Isabela, please...” he growled.

“What? As your _therapist_ , it’s my job to give you resources!”

“As my _friend_ , you’ll kindly drop it.”

“Fine,” she pouted.

Fenris looked halfway between wanting to kill her and wanting to hug her, and they both knew he was incapable of doing either right now. She knew exactly how to poke and prod and pry. She wasn’t about to let him get away with wallowing in anger and guilt for the rest of this journey. For the rest of his life, if it had been up to him.

She nodded at him, trying not to smile.

“Stop enjoying this. Everything is fucking awful, remember?”

“Not _everything_. You know that I think there’s a lot of potential between you two. Always has been. And if this is what it takes to force you to talk to each other about all your damn _feelings_ , then I’m all for it. Even if it takes another dozen awkward sexual encounters in and out of the Fade with you _both_ dreaming about Anders in order to make it work. It’s a bit unconventional, but...”

“There won’t be anymore ‘encounters,’ because I’m going to stay as far away from her as possible until we dock somewhere and then we can all go our separate ways. Or at least I can.”

Isabela actually looked hurt. It wasn’t the sort of exaggerated pout she usually gave him when he was being sulky or difficult. She looked sincerely wounded by this -- the thought of him leaving, giving up on them, giving up on himself, after all the hard work he’d put in through the years.

 _Desperate times…_ she thought. She took a deep breath, “I’m going to tell Aveline, then.”

“What?”

“I’m going to tell her you’re not properly ‘looking after’ her girl.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You know…”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“As soon as we get off this ship, if you haven’t at least _tried_ to speak to Hawke again, I’m sending a raven straight to Kirkwall.”

“And what will it say? ‘We’re all safe, except Hawke’s still miserable and Fenris refuses to pursue a sexual relationship with her as a proxy for Anders in his dreams’?”

“No. That would scandalize the old girl. I’d put it _much_ more delicately.”

“Yes. I’m sure you would. I don’t think that’s what Aveline had in mind when she -- ”

Isabela knew how fond he was of Aveline, how much he respected her and cherished her approval. She knew this threat held more leverage for him than anything else she could come up with. More than any ‘concerned and disappointed Dad’ talk from Varric, or pitiable tears from Merrill, and it almost pained her to have to use it against him. This was low, even for her. But he was talking about running away again! And, damnit, she couldn’t bear the thought of losing _another_ part of this fucked-up dysfunctional family, and especially not him. He deserved more than the kind of loneliness and self-loathing that she’d endured for years before being washed ashore in Kirkwall and finding a new life, a new family, a new way of just...accepting who she was, what she’d done and had been done to her, and a new hope in her own humanity.

“Ok, but seriously. You can’t give up on this now.” Isabela sounded desperate. Because she was. “We need you. _Hawke_ needs you.”

Fenris looked back to where Hawke was still standing. She hadn’t moved. She might as well have been a statue or a misplaced masthead. A really sad, despondent-looking one that someone would have rightfully taken down because instead of inspiring its crew, it would have just made them all want to throw themselves overboard.

“She’s miserable, Fenris.”

“I can see that!” he scowled. “But what can I do about it? I’m not exactly the _comforting_ sort.”

“Just...be there for her. Like you’ve always been. More than any of the rest of us, anyway.”

“I’ll think about it,” he finally conceded. If it was just a matter of existing as he had for more than half of a decade, of being present and available to her should some actual need arise that he was _fit_ for, it didn’t seem nearly as overwhelming.

She nodded, relieved for the moment, anyway, but the earnestness in her face was quickly replaced by her usual defensive wickedness. “And then maybe think about fucking her, too? Preferably when you’re both awake? Give her something to help her get over him. It’ll help you _both_ get over him, and all your other shit, too.” She stuck her tongue out, sliding it along the blunt edge of her dagger.

“Shut up!” His face had gone red with anger and embarrassment and more than a little disgust, and his lyrium markings had begun to glow. “I hate you so much,” he muttered, and he turned away from her before he did or said anything else he might regret.

“I love you!” she called after him as he disappeared back below deck. “And _you_ love Hawke. So that’s all that _really_ matters!”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried and tried to cut this down so that this chapter wasn't just one long drawn-out angsty dialogue, but every time I got rid of something, I felt like I wasn't doing the complicated relationship for these two justice. They are besties, but also, like siblings, and also, Isabela is a few years ahead of where Fenris is in terms of dealing with her past traumas, and she really doesn't want to see him go through what she did when she was, for the most part, on her own. So she comes on a little strong here, because she's scared. He'll give her shit, too, later on...I swear!


	4. A Promise Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris keeps his promise to Isabela (and Aveline, by proxy).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex. Just feelings. And shots of paint thinner, because things are that bad.

\---

Hawke had skipped dinner again for the second night in a row. Isabela had spent most of the meal eyeballing Fenris, and then kicking him under the table when he tried to ignore her.

“What?!” he finally snapped at her, his lyrium brands lit up in annoyance. Nobody seemed to even notice. Had they all just forgotten what he was capable of?

“Someone should probably go check on Hawke, don’t you think?” Isabela asked loudly in his direction. There was that obnoxious wink again, too.

“Why don’t you go check on her yourself?” He kicked her back, careful not to phase through her, not that she wouldn’t have deserved a shattered tibia. But he wasn’t all that confident in Merrill’s healing abilities. She certainly wasn’t as good as _Anders_ had been, anyway.

“Fuck! Ow! I mean, uhhh...because? I’m the Captain. That’s like a, second, or even third mate job.”

“I can go see if she wants anything to eat?” Varric offered.

“No! You’re fourth mate at best. Can’t trust _you_ with such an important task.”

“That’s not even a thing…” he grumbled.

Merrill seemed to be counting on her fingers and trying to piece together some complicated logic puzzle. “But there’s only five of us aboard, so that means…”

“Yes, Varric _is_ my least favorite child.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry, Varric...” Merrill looked quite sincere in her sympathy.

“Don’t be, Daisy. The less responsibility I have, the happier I am.”

She had already turned to look back at Isabela with a sense of wonder, “But...that means _I’m_ in your top three!?”

“Uh, yeah, Kitten. You’re number one.” This was the closest she’d ever come to actually expressing any kind of exclusive feelings for the woman, even though almost all of them (except Merrill) had known for years how special she was to her.

“Oh, _vhenan_!” she blushed.

Isabela tried to hide her adoration, but an uncharacteristically goofy smile had already made its way onto her face.

For once, Fenris was actually grateful for the ridiculous company he found himself stuck in close quarters with aboard this Maker-forsaken ship. Hopefully, Isabela would drop it, distracted by her beloved blushing elf, and he could continue refusing to acknowledge the conversation they’d had earlier that day, the half of a promise he’d made. He had merely told her that he’d ‘think about it,’ after all.

They finished their evening meal with a round of shots of some horrible-tasting unlabelled liquor Isabela had found locked away in a cupboard somewhere (so therefore, “it must’ve been really good stuff, right?”).

While Merrill and Varric began to hypothesize about what in Creation they’d just poisoned themselves with and how long they had to live, Isabela leaned across the galley table toward Fenris. “Go...or I’m docking us in Ostwick tomorrow and tattling on you to old Man Hands. I hear they’ve got some of the fastest ravens in the Free Marches,” she whispered.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate you?”

“Every chance you get, hun. I don’t take it personally, though.” She blew him a kiss.

“You really should.”

“Yup. Got it. Now go talk to Hawke.”

He stood up and stalked out of the room, growling something in Tevene which really wasn’t unusual enough of an occurrence to gain him any extra attention from the other two, who were still peering at the strange bottle of liquid.

“Could it be turpentine?” Varric asked, taking another whiff.

“Oh, shit yeah! That cupboard had other paint supplies in it, too. I thought it was a little weird, but…” Isabela shrugged, watching to make sure that Fenris was headed in the direction of Hawke’s room. “Another round, yeah?”

...

Fenris found Hawke sitting on the floor with the contents of her pack dumped out and scattered all around her. She was sobbing into what looked like a wadded up old rag.

“Hawke.”

He knew he hadn’t surprised her. She had better hearing than the rest of them and she wasn’t someone you could actually ever sneak up on. But he thought he should at least announce his presence, in case she wished to compose herself.

After several moments, during which she did not indicate any inclination to do so, he cleared his throat, awaiting at least some acknowledgment or permission to be there.

“H -- hi,” she sputtered. “About the other night…” she sniffed. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t come here for you to apologize _again_ for something _I_ did,” he growled in frustration.

“Sor-- ” she began to mumble automatically before stopping herself.

So far, this was going about as well as he’d expected it to.

Her voice, her whole presence, so huddled and so weak and still so broken, was difficult for him to reconcile with the loud, rambunctious woman he had always known her to be. In the past week, he’d seen enough of her like this that it shouldn’t have bothered him nearly as much as it did.

What made it so hard, he realized, was the helplessness he felt in not being able to _do_ anything about it. He’d always been able to help her with everything else she’d asked of him through the years. Even if he didn’t agree with it, and he often didn’t see the point in many of the things she insisted on seeing through to their usually-bitter ends, he still showed up and did his part to keep her safe while she haphazardly tried to save everyone and fix everything in this Maker-forsaken world. Sometimes, he realized, he showed up to keep Anders safe, too. But he’d failed at that in the end, hadn’t he? Pushing him away toward self-destruction, out of fear...

Why was he here? What right did he have to inject himself into her life _now_ that it was in ruins? She hadn’t even really asked for his help, specifically. And even if she had, this wasn’t a matter of simply following along and ripping out hearts or swinging his sword if the occasion arose to defend her or their friends.

Fenris took a deep breath, remembering Isabela’s exhortation for him to _Just...be there for her._ Hearing her voice in his head was even more proof that this was most definitely ill-advised, but… “May I come in?”

He had no choice. She’d threatened to unleash Aveline’s disapproving wrath on him if he didn’t at least _try_ to speak with her.

Hawke nodded, without turning to face him, and pulled the wad of cloth back up to her face.

Fenris knew that a good friend probably would’ve already been at her side, holding her, wiping away her tears, asking her what was wrong (even though it was obvious what was wrong) and doing everything he could to comfort her in her grief.

Isabela would’ve been a good friend. Or Merrill, though she might have just as easily burst into tears herself, and then Isabela would’ve had two sobbing women to comfort. She would’ve loved that, he was sure. Even Varric, whose underlying warmth and kindness seemed especially at risk of being exposed when it came to any member of the Hawke family, would’ve been far better suited for this.

Bethany would’ve been the best person for it, obviously, but she was, hopefully, back in Kirkwall, or fleeing from the city herself, depending on how things had gone down. He knew Aveline would have done whatever she could to protect Bethany from the retribution the Knight-Commander would have inevitably attempted to enact after Anders’ stunt. Until they heard anything otherwise, he would have to believe she'd been successful.

Fenris, however, was not capable of being a _good_ friend like the rest of them. So he stood awkwardly behind Hawke, hating Isabela for encouraging this, but hating himself even more, for agreeing to come here as if he had anything to offer her.

“This was his,” Hawke finally said, holding the wad of old fabric up over her shoulder for him to see. It appeared to have been a shirt, a long cotton tunic, at some point, in spite of all the old stains and frayed edges it had acquired since it had ceased to serve as an acceptable item of clothing.

“Yes. It seems raggedy enough to have belonged to him,” Fenris mused.

There was a surprising warmth, even fondness in his voice that made her smile, just a little, but she still had not turned to look at him.

“It still smells like him,” she confessed, as though she was revealing some kind of shameful secret.

Fenris leaned over slightly and sniffed. Even from the distance he was trying carefully to maintain from Hawke, it did, though he couldn’t understand how he knew what the mage smelled like.

He leaned closer and inhaled again, a bit deeper this time.

_Fuck, it smelled just like him..._

Earl grey and honey and elfroot and the slight acidic, almost sulphuric smell of magic pulled from the Fade.

He tried to inhale more of it without seeming like a crazed man, the smells triggering memories, both real and imagined, of the mage, and then he realized that it also smelled like her. Whiskey and cinnamon and coffee and sweat.

“Fenedhis,” he exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath, trying to hold onto their combined scents, just as he remembered them from his dreams. There was so much more that he wanted to say, to explain, so that she might understand what had come over him. But there weren’t words for this. Only images and false memories.

“...right?” She finally turned toward him, her red, swollen eyes twinkling with both despair and delight at the effect it had had on him. Maybe he didn’t need to find the words, after all.

It was a flash, perhaps, of what Isabela had been talking about _could have_ existed between them. Some mutual understanding revealed through their grief. Their shared love of him forcing them to acknowledge their love for each other. It _could have been_ good for them both. Maybe. In another life.

“I was wearing it our last night together in Kirkwall, like a sad sentimental weirdo, thinking he wouldn’t come back. But he did. One last time.”

She breathed in, then out. Reminding herself, like Anders had that night, how her lungs worked.

“And then he was gone again before I woke up the next morning. For some stupid reason, I felt the need to throw it in my pack and take it along with us when we went to hunt those slavers. And then, he...” She began to shudder again. She clutched the shirt tightly against her chest, remembering how he'd opened her up, kept her from falling apart that night. His final gift to her seemed to have been showing her how to survive this despair.

“Because you knew, Hawke. We _all_ kinda knew. But you... _knew_. And there was nothing you could have done to stop him. You know that, too.” He swallowed, pushing down some deeper realizations about his own regrets when it came to Anders. “You _do_ know that, right?”

A fresh wave of sobs came over her and she buried her face back in the shirt. He felt the urge to wrap his arms around her and sob along with her. But he didn’t.

“And now all we have of him is this stupid fucking shirt!” She balled it up in her fist and made to throw it across the room, but she couldn’t let go of it.

“It’s enough,” Fenris said, quietly, staring at it, a look of awe on his face that such a thing could mean so much.

Hawke followed his gaze to the shirt wadded up angrily in her fist. Then something resembling an idea, if her numb mind was even permitted to have such a thing, came to her. She unballed the shirt and ran her hands delicately over it, smoothing it out on the floor in front of her, almost like an apology, before her fingers found a familiar spot on the side where Anders’ potions belt had often rested, leaving it worn thin and threadbare.

Fenris jumped in surprise at the jarring sound of the fabric tearing as Hawke dug her fingers in and suddenly ripped the bottom two inches off in one quick motion.

“Here…” she said, holding the torn strip out to him.

His heart was still racing, embarrassed that he’d been so startled by such a thing, but she hadn’t even seemed to notice how jumpy he was. He held out his hand, half-worried it might activate his lyrium brands with how much of the mage it still seemed to retain. But it dropped gently into his palm when she released it, the soft worn fabric landing cool against his skin, almost like one of Anders’ barriers. “Er, thank you?”

“I want you to have a piece of him, too, I guess.” She was staring at it in his hand as though it was a piece of her heart she’d just ripped out from inside of her.

“I...will cherish it.” He sounded surprised by the honesty in these words. He closed his hand tightly around the scrap of fabric, reiterating the truth in them.

“You can also just light it on fire if you want, y’know,” Hawke let out a nervous little half of a laugh.

Fenris chuckled a little, too, and nodded. “I will consider it.”

He finally sat down next to her with a sigh, realizing he did not want to leave. Not yet, anyway.

Her eyes met his again for a moment. There was a hint of gratitude there, though Fenris wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve it. He looked away from her first this time, staring in front of him, then down at the piece of Anders she’d just given him. She followed his eyes again to the scrap of fabric he still held tightly in his hand. It looked as though he might never let it go. And she felt a flood of warmth in her chest, which had felt so cold and empty for the past week. He really _did_ love him.

They both sat in warm silence for a long time, not saying anything, not even looking at each other, just holding their piece of what remained of the mage. For the first time in awhile, Fenris didn’t feel quite so inadequate or anxious. Just being there seemed to be enough right now to help her feel less alone. Less empty, maybe. He certainly felt less alone, too. Maybe Isabela was right. About _that_ part of it, at least.

…

Neither of them had any sense of how much time had passed, before a knock on the door startled them out of the stillness they’d been sharing.

“Hawke? I have food…”

Hawke looked at Fenris, a brief hint of betrayal in her eyes.

“I did not tell him to come.” Fenris shrugged. He seemed almost as irritated as she was for the interruption to this quiet vigil they’d been holding.

“Hawke? You in there?”

“Yes, Varric,” she sighed. “Hang on…” She stood up to go to the door, but hesitated when she realized she was still holding Anders’ shirt. She hastily shoved it back into her pack before heading toward the door.

Fenris shoved his scrap into his pocket as he stood up, following her to the door, deciding whether or not to try and make an escape past Varric before this got anymore awkward.

Hawke opened the door to a plate of food, and Varric standing behind it, attempting to use it as a shield. “Oh! Sorry if I was interr--”

“No.” They both said, firmly.

He peered over the plate at them. Both fully-clothed. Nobody looking especially pissed off or missing any limbs. No blushing, even. He breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I know you skipped dinner again, and I didn’t think Fenris had brought any food with him, so…here, if you want it.”

Hawke took the plate he was offering, with dried fruit and pickled beets and one of the fish that they’d caught earlier that afternoon, and tried to seem genuinely grateful. “Thanks, Varric.”

“And, um, I should let you know that our _Captain_ and her First Mate are also on their way. With dessert. And cards. And probably more booze, but if it’s in an unlabelled bottle, I recommend you pass.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, and looked half-pleadingly back at Fenris. _Make them go away! Do your prickly broody growling thing and make them go away!_

But he did not. It would’ve been pointless, anyway, and they both knew it. Hawke had denied them all of this for too long. They needed her as much as she probably needed them, hard as it was to accept their over-exuberant kindness at times.

Fenris shrugged and gave her an ineffectual smirk. _Would it help if I stayed?_

Hawke nodded, that same look of undeserved gratitude from before in her eyes.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had quite the conversation planned for these two in processing the awkward dream sex thing from Ch 2, but Varric and Isabela and Merrill insisted on butting in because they really miss their Marian, so these two are gonna have to wait a bit longer for that. I don't think they mind, really.


	5. New Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slumber party!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex OR paint thinner. Just matching shipmate jammies.

\---

Once Isabela had decided a slumber party was in order, there was no stopping her. She and Merrill showed up in the matching linen sleepclothes she’d given to all of them, their arms full of whatever sweet and salty treats they could find, along with so many extra pillows and blankets, and, as promised, several bottles of alcohol.

“You all still have the pajamas I gave you, right?” Isabela beamed at them from behind the pile of stuff in her arms.

Varric made a face. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes, Varric! I spent a long time trying to find a pair that would fit you. I think they were originally meant for the children Castillon used to smuggle into Tevinter, but we’ll put them to much better use now, won’t we? Just like the rest of this ship!”

“Oh, this is going to be so much fun,” Hawke muttered sarcastically.

“The sooner we get you drunk, the more fun it’ll be! But first, go put your jammies on. You, too, Fenris! I know you love them, and I think Hawke likes seeing you in them, too.”

Hawke blushed. “What? I don’t -- that’s…”

“Festis bei umo canavum!” Fenris spat back at Isabela as he left to do exactly as she had told him to. There was no denying that they were comfortable, at least.

“‘I love you’ sounds so different in Tevene,” she mused.

...

All it took was a few shots of the liquor Isabela promised them was absolutely _not_ turpentine before Hawke realized she was actually grateful to be surrounded and smothered by her friends again. She _had_ missed hugs and cuddling and laughing and even shedding a few tears _with_ people. Merrill spent most of the evening with some or all of herself draped over Isabela, squeezing Hawke’s arm or rubbing her back every time she remembered she was there, and sighing, “Oh, _Hawke_ …” while Varric and Fenris argued about cards. They were trying to teach the others how to play Diamondback. But it was clear that even the two of them had some disagreements about the rules, and those disagreements seemed to get more and more important the drunker they got, so the game never really got going. Nobody _really_ seemed to mind, so long as there was a steady supply of booze and snacks to pass around.

After the hope of a card game had finally been abandoned, they’d turned to storytelling to entertain themselves. Merrill and Hawke were humoring Varric in some dramatic retelling of his favorite Anders story when Isabela leaned up against Fenris and whispered, “I’m proud of you, hun.”

“For what?”

“For...I dunno...for getting over yourself and talking to her?”

“I didn’t have a choice. You saw to that.” He ducked his head and smiled, just a little.

“You’re welcome,” she nodded back, quietly.

Fenris’ eyes narrowed on her, then he sighed. “So you and Merrill…? Finally?”

“What do you mean ‘ _finally_ ’?!”

“Well, _we_ all know you’ve been in love with her for awhile, but does _she_ know? Are you going to be _honorable_ for once in your life?”

“Ha! Honorable? No. Never! But if you’re asking if we’ve declared our love for one another...we don’t need words. We use our bodies for that.” She nudged him with her hip.

“So you’re still being a coward about it, then?” He nudged her back, a bit less gently.

It was her turn to glare at him. “Don’t talk to _me_ about being a coward, Coward!”

Fenris smiled ruefully. “I see I’ve touched a nerve.”

This was payback, long overdue. Their relationship had always involved a degree of mutual push and pull, as much as Isabela liked to think of herself as _his_ ‘therapist.’ Fenris was one of the few people who could challenge her to be more honest. With herself, mostly. But also to stop burying or running away from deeper feelings, her pain, the real risks of investing in people emotionally, as she pretended not to care, that nothing got to her, that nothing mattered. That was a lot easier for her than giving a shit. Whereas Fenris often gave _too many_ shits.

“Look, I’m working up to it, okay? She is so special. I don’t want to scare her off, with all of _this_.” She waved a hand in front of herself as though revealing something previously unseen.

“She already knows and loves you. Everyone can see that. What additional reassurance do you need?”

“What if she only knows and loves the Isabela that everyone else knows and loves, though?”

He scoffed. “You honestly don’t think she knows the _real_ you?”

“No. She does. At least I think she does. Maybe even better than I know myself. Maybe even better than _you_ , Fenris. I’m utterly hopeless at keeping up most of my usual fronts when I am alone with her.”

“Good. Then there you are.”

“I know! But...”

How could she be so dismayed by the fact that she had found someone who knew her completely, loved her unconditionally, and made her so utterly happy? If Fenris hadn’t known Isabela so well, known the pain and fear she hid behind her cheeky facade, and known what a hypocrite it would’ve made him, he would’ve been angry with her for being such an idiot about this.

“Tell her how you feel.”

“I will. I promise I will. I just need...a little bit more time. I think. It’s terrifying, you know?”

“Don’t wait too long.” Fenris suddenly remembered the scrap of fabric he’d shoved into his pocket. A piece of Anders. And Hawke. The smell of them both. Something he maybe could’ve been a part of. If he hadn’t waited until it was too late.

“What about you?”

“That’s not -- _I’m_ not -- I talked to her, didn’t I? And I’m here _now_. But I don’t really see how any of this could ever become a happily ever after for either one of us. With Merrill, it should be easier for you. Just marry her, for fuck’s sake, and be happy,” he hissed, realizing he’d elevated his voice well above a whisper.

“You deserve happiness, too, Fenris.”

She had somehow managed to turn the conversation back around on him. She was much better at that than he was. Her 'legendary' skills at dueling were not limited to her handling of a blade.

“What if I don’t, though?”

“We all do.”

Hawke had gotten bored with Varric’s story about Anders trying to start a fight with the Right Hand of the Divine. It had turned into a story mostly about the Seeker as he absolutely butchered her Nevarran accent and was strutting around like some caricature of a woman. She’d been there, and even with his ridiculous embellishments, it wasn’t as interesting to her as Fenris and Isabela muttering and cursing at one another under their breath behind them.

“We all do _what_?”

“Nothing,” Fenris said sharply, glaring a warning at Isabela.

“ _Everything_ , dear…” Isabela wrapped her arms around Hawke’s neck and planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek.

Fenris shook his head. “Where is that _kaffas_ bottle of wine you brought down?”

...

At some point, they’d all eventually come together into a pile of bodies and blankets and pillows on the floor, passing the last bottle haphazardly back and forth between them. Hawke melted into Merrill’s lap as she absent-mindedly played with her hair. Isabela sat behind Merrill, against the wall, and pulled her into her own lap, resting her cheek against the top of her head and wrapping her arms around her torso, while Fenris slumped down beside Isabela, allowing her to very subtly lean a warm, soft shoulder against him. He leaned back against her, sighing as the warmth and comfort of her genuine affection, something he often resisted, washed over him. Varric eventually joined them, too, stretching his feet out in front of him with his back propped up against the wall. Hawke kicked her feet across his lap and wrapped an arm around his elbow, tugging him closer.

“I miss him, too, Hawke,” he sighed.

“Me too,” Merrill sniffed, twirling a piece of Hawke’s hair around her finger.

“Not me,” Isabela smiled, a tear rolling down her cheek as she nuzzled it against Merrill and enveloped even more of her little body with her own.

Fenris slid his hand down into his pocket to check that the piece of the shirt Hawke had given him was still there.

“I know. Thank you all. For letting me sulk for a week. And for tonight. And...for the past six years. And whatever lies ahead of us.”

“Are you giving a toast, Hawke?” Varric asked, sounding both sleepy and amused.

“I think we already finished the last bottle...” It almost sounded like Fenris was hoping someone might go get another, but none of them were in any state to go hunting through the ship’s larder or Captain’s Quarters for more.

“Well, I think it was a lovely toast, lethallan,” Merrill murmured, tucking a chunk of hair behind Hawke's ear.

“Hear, hear!” Isabela cheered, only half-awake.

There were more than enough beds and bunks for all of them, but this was what they really needed. A warm, messy pile of shared grief. Thanks to the alcohol, it wasn't long at all before they’d begun to doze off, one by one. Hawke smiled at the sounds of Varric’s low rumbling breathing, followed by Merrill’s fitful sniffs and snuffles and murmurs as she occasionally dug her fingernails into Hawke’s scalp, like a cat dreaming of hunting and teasing its prey. Isabela slept silently, which was always surprising, given how she was when she was awake. And then there was Fenris’ gentle, even snoring, a sound she’d only recently become familiar with. Hawke loved them all so much, and her heart felt almost full, even if it was only for a moment.

Her thoughts drifted back to _him_. The way he always wound his long limbs around her as they slept, his restorative magic haphazardly leaking into her. And Justice sometimes peering out through Anders to check on her, too. Even when she'd protest and elbow or kick him away, preferring a bit more space to thrash around and get comfortable, she still loved waking up completely surrounded by him. How could she ever get over the fact that she would never wake up in his arms again?

She somehow extricated herself from their little pile and snuck over to her pack. She pulled the old shirt back out, breathing it in as she curled up on the floor around it.

“Should I head back to my room?” Fenris asked, carefully sitting up from his place next to Isabela.

“Oh. I thought everyone had passed out.”

“I do not _believe_ this conversation is taking place in my dreams, but I suppose there _is_ precedent for that...”

“You can obviously stay, Fenris,” she groaned.

She’d almost allowed herself to forget about the other night. About their unfortunate encounter, both of them dreaming about sex with Anders, waking up to find themselves intertwined with one another. They should talk about it, shouldn’t they? But she didn’t know how. Not without apologizing profusely like she always did, but that only seemed to make him angry. It was clear, though, that he was still very much disturbed by what had happened.

“I mean...if you want to,” she added.

He came over and sat down beside her, cross-legged, pulling a pillow into his arms and holding it against his chest.

She waited for him to speak, but he said nothing.

“I didn’t realize how much I’d miss your snoring, you know. I haven’t slept very well these last couple of nights without it,” she said, still awkwardly tiptoe-ing around the thing.

“I don’t snore,” Fenris huffed. “You must be thinking of Varric.”

They both jumped as the dwarf let out a loud, long snort in response.

“I don’t _think_ Varric was sharing my quarters with me those first few nights, but you can go ahead and keep telling yourself that.”

He was quiet for awhile, always gathering his thoughts before just blurting them out the way Hawke did. She used to find it disconcerting. But now...she was realizing that it could be nice to have space to breathe and to think and to feel and to just... _be_.

He took a deep breath, pulling the pillow tighter against himself. “What if it happens again, Hawke? Or something worse?” Though he couldn’t really imagine anything worse. He certainly didn’t want to, anyway. He looked down at the lyrium etched onto the back of his hands crossed in front of him, wishing it would just disappear, along with all the horrible memories and fears associated with it.

“Then I’ll wake you up! And same goes for me, right? If I start sleep-humping you, I have full faith that you’ll throw me across the room.”

Fenris snorted. He’d certainly thrown her off of him before. “It’s a deal, I guess...”

“We _could_ go sleep in _your_ cabin if that’s better for you?”

Fenris sighed. He certainly had enjoyed the opportunity earlier to quietly mourn alone with her, but “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to…”

“Oh! I didn’t mean it like -- oh Maker! I just thought, because of the drunken snoring, and the mess. Shit! You must think -- ”

“Hawke.”  _Calm yourself, you ridiculous woman._

“Nevermind! It was a silly suggestion. I am just going to blame the alcohol. And I _won’t_ apologize!”

“Good.”

“Now, I’m going to stay up and cry into this old raggedy ass shirt for a little while longer. Might make out with it or try to have sex with it in my sleep, so don’t be alarmed!” She forced herself to laugh at her own nervous joke, because _someone_ had to.

“Very well,” he smiled. “Please do not hesitate to wake me if I seem to be having any dreams, sexy, or murderous, or...otherwise.”

“Now I’m intrigued by the ‘otherwise’...” _Damnit! Why can't I just STOP?! Why am I like this?_

“Don’t be.”

“G’night, Fenris!” she said, rather brightly. Too brightly. She was still trying to hide her embarrassment. She was especially bad at that, he’d noticed these past few days. Her cheeks were suddenly very flushed, another thing she might be able to blame on the alcohol. But she threw herself face first into a pillow, clutching the shirt, and hoping that sleep would come quickly.

He knew he shouldn’t have been so amused by her discomfort and awkwardness, but he had to admit to himself that it was kind of fun seeing her squirm and blush like an idiot all on account of him. It reminded him of the way she'd been with Anders at first. Back then, he'd hated seeing this side of her, of course, because he was petty and jealous of them both. If only he'd been able to move beyond his anger...

“Good night, Hawke,” he whispered, reaching instinctively toward her before realizing what he was doing and pulling his hand back. He watched her try to will herself to sleep for a moment before making a little nest for himself in a pile of blankets a few feet away.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters where I fell in love with the idea a long time ago, and then tried to make some plot things/conversations happen within that idea, but I just couldn't figure out how to write it. I can only hope it's fluffy enough to get through the terrible flow/pace/feel/whatever it is that is rubbing me the wrong way that I can't seem to fix! (And if anyone has any suggestions, please share!)


	6. A Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris share a nightmare (a nightmare, not THE Nightmare...that's for later!).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex. But content warning: there's some mean things said and arguing here between three people who care about each other very very much...

\---

“Oh no, Fenris! Did you, ummm...your wrist. Is that a...uhhh, bandage?” Merrill was trying her best to be delicate. She knew from experience what it was like to have people question her about self-inflicted wounds. But there _was_ a look of deep concern written all over her face as she wrung her hands and shifted her weight uneasily from one foot to the other, eyeing the tattered old cloth tied around his wrist.

“If you’re asking me if I’m practicing blood magic, the answer is no.”

Hawke snorted quietly while she busied herself with the rigging.

“That’s not -- umm...no, I didn’t think _you_ \-- “

His tone softened considerably. “Nor did I harm myself, Merrill, I assure you.” He gave her a reassuring little smile.

“Oh, thank the Creators!”

Isabela had been listening, too. “So is this just some new fashionable trend to tie old filthy scraps of fabric around random parts of your body, or…?”

“Sure.” Fenris shrugged. Isabela and Merrill just looked at each other, a mix of relief and confusion shared between them.

Hawke looked down and smiled fondly to herself. Fenris was the only one who noticed. He moved closer to her, holding the rigging as she tied down one of the stays for the mainsail, which they’d had to adjust with the changing winds. Isabela said it meant they were getting closer to their destination, but nobody really knew where that was or if she even had a place in mind.

“Your fashion accessory is sad,” Hawke said, after Isabela and Merrill had wandered away to adjust the other sails. They had barely made it halfway across the deck before there were giggles as Isabela pulled her into her arms and was looking ready to devour her.

“At least it’s not shoved down my pants or into my corset like some depraved stalker,” Fenris muttered.

“How did you know?! I’m actually just using mine as underwear while my smalls air out a little. You all really couldn’t have thought to stop by the estate and grab a few extra pairs for me on our way to the Docks?”

“My sincerest apologies, _Messere_ , but your undergarments were the least of our concerns.”

“Yes, yes. Fine.” She waved her hand dismissively, adopting the exaggerated indifference of Kirkwall’s nobility that they both despised. It was a hard thing to commit to without laughing, and she knew Fenris was better than her at dry, merciless sarcasm anyway, so it wasn’t really worth keeping up the act for long.

She stopped, and looked at him intently, her eyes twinkling with mischief, a welcome departure from the sadness that had been dwelling there lately. “More importantly, though... _you_ wear a corset?”

“I have, on occasion.” He half-winked, leaving things deliberately vague. Most of his experience with feminine undergarments had been Isabela’s doing, of course. And it is also how he quickly discovered he didn’t enjoy the feeling of his lungs being constricted within his ribcage, no matter how pretty or delicate the thing doing the squeezing was, much to Isabela’s disappointment. _This is like an instant turn-on,_ she’d assured him, as she put all of her strength into tightening the laces up his back, before he activated his lyrium and phased through it, tearing the torturous contraption off of himself.

“Fenris! You can’t just casually mention something like that!”

“Yes, well…” He returned his attention to the knot tying, and she was left to assume he’d just been messing with her.

Varric had somehow materialized on the deck of the ship nearby. “What are you two talking about? I feel like Hawke’s usually the one scandalizing you, not the other way around.”

“Nothing!” They both blurted out, looking like two children caught with their hands in the sweets jar.

“What is with all the _secrets_ on this ship,” he muttered loudly, stomping away to pester Isabela about where they were headed, and whether or not they’d be able to get a message to Aveline back in Kirkwall. More importantly, he needed to find someone who might be able to get his latest chapters to his publisher.

“Rivaini! Stop making out with Daisy for a nug-humping minute, will you? You two are way too old to be acting like this!”

...

They’d all begun to settle into a sort of routine. Anchors and sails up in the morning. Sailing, fishing, reading (the ship had a well-stocked library thanks to Castillon’s bizarre obsession with being an ‘intellectual’ pirate captain, no doubt the result of some kind of inferiority complex borne out of doing business with Tevinter), writing, sometimes just laying around and/or moping during the day. Anchors and sails down in the evening. Dinner. A half-hearted attempt at cards (they still hadn’t settled on the rules of Diamondback, since Donnic had always been the deciding vote between Varric and Fenris’ disputes). Then bed.

Without any further discussion, after the night of Isabela’s mandatory slumber party, Fenris was back sleeping in Hawke’s room again. It had been another week, and, to his relief, there’d been no more incidents between them. Still, Fenris always slept in the bed furthest away from Hawke.

Some nights, he and Hawke would stay up and talk about Kirkwall, reluctant to fall asleep because they were still a little worried about what their dreams might entail. Their friends. Her family. Mostly they talked about safe, silly things like Aveline sheepishly asking Isabela to take her shopping for something to wear on her honeymoon, and Isabela taking this important task more seriously than anything else in her entire life. Or Hawke insisting on Pork being the guest of honor at one of her mother’s fancy luncheons. Or all of the times they’d shown up at Viscount’s Keep, bloody, or drunk, usually both, just to harass Seneschal Bran. He was more fun than Ser Cullen, because he at least was good for a round or two of verbal sparring with his bitingly harsh comments and disdain for their brand of mischief.

Sometimes, they’d talk about Anders. Briefly. A hint of a memory. A half-whispered confession. Or about their fears for the state of the world, the safety of their friends back in Kirkwall, and what this all meant for them. Not _them,_  Fenris and Hawke. That was certainly not something either of them was willing to even think about, let alone discuss out loud with one another.

Both of them always thought they were waiting until the other was asleep before they allowed themselves to drift off, and they were each right about half of the time. But tonight, they’d drifted off at about the same time, mid-conversation, the lack of sleep finally catching up with them.

…

It wasn’t all that different from dreams he’d had before. They were arguing. Hawke was defending Anders. Fenris was trying his best not to be the bad guy, but things were getting desperate. They were _all_ terrified.

“We spoke to the Glavonak dwarf this morning,” he said, trying not to sound so accusatory. But it was becoming clear that Hawke was not going to be direct enough. And the situation had become quite urgent if their suspicions were correct.

Anders shot a betrayed look at him, then turned, his eyes searching Hawke’s for some kind of rescue. She nodded, apologetically. Fenris wasn’t bluffing.

“We know what you’re up to,” he continued, as if that hadn’t been a clear enough implication from his previous statement.

“You can’t go through with this, Anders!” Hawke finally cried out. “It’s too dangerous. For you, for us...innocent lives will be lost! It’ll prove everything Meredith has been saying all along about the mages. She’ll finally have the justification she needs to annul the Circle. Bethany is there, remember?”

Anders swallowed, knowing there was no point in denying it. “It’s already done,” he whispered. Then, more boldly, “And anyway, I won’t let you stop me! If it sparks a war, so be it. There can be no compromise between mages and those who seek to enslave and abuse us.”

Hawke was surprised that she saw no trace of Justice in his eyes with the way he was talking. Surprised, and possibly even more alarmed than she had already been.

“Do not talk to me about enslavement and abuse, mage,” Fenris growled.

“Stop! Both of you!” Hawke took a deep breath, trying to choose her words carefully. “We don’t disagree with your cause, Anders. You _know_ this! We are on your side. We will confront Meredith directly. Tomorrow...or tonight, even!”

Fenris raised his eyebrows at her. They hadn’t discussed _this_ plan, in particular. But if it could convince him...

“We will march ourselves into Templar Hall and demand she step down. If Elthina, or Cullen, or the Divine herself won’t stand up to her, we will. We will liberate the fucking Gallows!” She was, perhaps, getting a bit carried away. But it was all she could think of to persuade him. “Just...not like this. Please? Not like this...” Hawke suddenly looked tired, broken, desperate.

But Anders just shook his head, refusing to look at either one of them. “It needs to be bigger than that. It doesn’t end with Meredith. You know this,” he said, quietly. He was speaking as much to himself now as he was to them.

“Yes. We’ve both read your Manifesto…” Fenris was growing impatient with this. All of it. Hawke overpromising to solve yet another unsolvable problem, Anders refusing to budge. He had stopped trying to hide the disappointment and scorn he felt. If Anders could not be bothered to consider how this might affect the rest of them, why should he care about hurting his feelings?

Hawke glared at him, before turning back to Anders. “Anders, please. Whatever you’ve done -- whatever you’ve set in motion...call it off. Let’s just try to do this together? Like everything else. Remember, our promises to one another?”

“I’ve planned this out. The casualties will be minimal.” His voice was uncharacteristically distant and unfeeling. He was completely unmoved by Hawke’s pleas or Fenris’ disapproval.

“ _Minimal_?!”

Anders’ eyes finally snapped back to him. “Remind me again, how many innocent people have _you_ killed, Fenris? I lost count the last time you told us about the entire encampment of freedom fighters whose kindness you repaid with murder...”

Fenris’ lyrium markings suddenly flared. “How dare you!” he shouted, as he launched himself across the room and lifted Anders up by the collar of his robes. Anders’ eyes had already gone icey blue, and the whole room felt like it had suddenly exploded with lyrium and energy from the Fade. Justice had taken over, but he did nothing to resist Fenris’ hold on him.

Hawke’s daggers were already out, one pointed at each of them.

“Who will you choose, Hawke? The Abomination or the Monster?” Fenris snarled, his eyes fixed on Justice.

“I can’t choose,” she said, shaking her head, but not lowering her daggers. “I _won’t_ choose. You know this. The choice was never mine in the first place. Please, Fenris. You love him, too.”

“YOU WILL NOT STOP HIM,” Justice suddenly boomed.

Hawke’s eyes darted to him, hurt and pleading. “Justice...why are you doing this?!”

“THIS IS NOT MY DOING.”

“Of course it is,” Fenris seethed, through gritted teeth.

“YOU HURT ME BY ASSUMING THE WORST, JUST AS YOU HAVE HURT HIM, THOUGH IT WILL NOT SWAY HIM NOW. NOTHING WILL.”

“He wants to blow up the fucking Chantry!” Fenris’ grip on him tightened. He could make it painless. He could reach through him and snap his spine. It would be quick. And there was a good chance Anders wouldn’t even realize it was happening since Justice had taken over. He knew Hawke could do it, too. She could be rid of both of them in a heartbeat with a slice of her two blades, and everyone would be better off. _She_ would be better off. But neither of them could _really_ do it. They both knew this.

“HE BELIEVES IT IS THE ONLY WAY FORWARD.”

“And _you_ can’t reason with him?” Hawke still held her daggers less than an inch away from either man’s throat. But she was trembling.

“HE BELIEVES HE IS DOING IT FOR ME. AND FOR BOTH OF YOU. AND FOR THE REST OF THE WORLD.”

“Well, that’s fucking idiotic.” Fenris’ lyrium markings had finally begun to fade a little, though he still held on tightly to Anders’ robes with his own unaugmented strength.

“HE BLOCKS ME OUT. I AM...AFRAID.”

“Justice...please…” Hawke’s voice broke as her daggers fell. She had never heard the spirit admit anything like this before. Fear? She didn’t know he even _could_ feel fear.

“I HAVE TRIED, BUT HE IS COMMITTED TO THIS PLAN. HE IS RESOLUTE.”

“Kaffas, spirit! Fight harder...for him! For us!” Fenris was shaking him now, frantically appealing to Justice.

“I FEAR IT WILL DESTROY WHAT IS LEFT OF HIS SOUL IF I TRY TO TAKE OVER AND STOP HIM…HE FIGHTS ME EVEN NOW.”

“Fasta vass!” Fenris hissed as he released him, shoving him away. There were tears welling up behind his eyes. He looked away from them, retreating to the other side of the room.

“I AM SORRY. IF THIS IS THE LAST WE SPEAK, PLEASE KNOW THAT I AM SORRY FOR THE INJUSTICES YOU’VE SUFFERED AS WELL. WE MIGHT HAVE SOUGHT TO RIGHT THEM TOGETHER IF THINGS HAD GONE DIFFERENTLY...”

Hawke caught Anders as he fell back into her arms, banishing Justice back into his sub-conscience.

He looked up at her, anger and fear in his eyes. “Was that -- ? Did I -- ? Maker’s breath! What did he do?!”

Fenris was standing away from them, his arms crossed over his chest. “Your spirit told us you’ve been ignoring him, too.”

“I -- yes. He seems to agree with _you_ …but he doesn’t understand people! He doesn’t get that this is the only way to force change.”

“Anders, please…I’m begging you.” Hawke was not in the habit of begging for anything, but she was running out of ideas.

“No.” His response was cold and final.

“Fine.” The pleading warmth in Hawke’s eyes had suddenly vanished, too. “Then we’re going to have to keep you here. Locked up. Under constant supervision. For your own safety. And everyone else’s.”

This was the greatest betrayal yet, and it broke Hawke’s heart, but she had to be the one to do it. She knew it would’ve killed Fenris.

“No, please! NO! You can’t, Hawke! Fenris! Don’t let her do this...” His pleas were hysterical. He began sobbing. Like a child. A child sent away, rejected, imprisoned. Locked away for a year in the dark, alone.

Fenris couldn’t even look at him. He felt all his pain. All that trauma. Knew intimately what it felt like to be told you had no choice in your own fate. This was Anders’ worst fear. And it was the ones he loved, the people he thought loved him, too, once again, who were doing this to him.

“Let him go,” Fenris said, his voice low and craggy.

“What?”

“Let him do it. Whatever he’s going to do.” He paused. _Fuck it._  “Hopefully, he’ll take his wretched self down with it.” He was eyeing Anders, trying to hate him. Trying to protect himself now from the inevitable grief of losing him. He was already lost, if what Justice said was true. There was nothing they could do or say to stop him.

“Of course, for you, Fenris, my _love,_ ” Anders spat out bitterly. He was fighting against them both, and Justice, with all he had left now and it was as ugly and mean as Fenris had become in his own desperation. Fenris was actually grateful. Perhaps Anders was trying to make this easier on him, too.

“No! Stop being so cruel! I can’t...” She turned to Anders again, “We just need to keep you here, until you’ve had a chance to calm down. To think. Until you see that there are other ways.”

“Well, I’m done with this, then. Do with him what you’d like, Hawke. I’m going to go say goodbye to our _friends_ and warn them that he's finally lost it. Then I’m leaving this Maker-forsaken place before he blows the whole city up and we get swept up in the aftermath. Enjoy your Revolution, mage. And your martyr, Hawke.”

It nearly killed Fenris to say such things. But he couldn’t keep doing this. He couldn’t keep dragging Anders away from the edge of self-destruction if he was so determined, beyond even listening to Justice anymore, and he definitely knew he wouldn’t have the strength to hold him against his will like Hawke was proposing. He stomped out of the estate, but instead of heading to Lowtown, where they were all meant to be celebrating their earlier victory against another group of would-be slavers, he headed toward the Chantry. Maybe he could figure out some way to undo whatever Anders had done. And if not, he’d be there waiting when Anders came to do it...

...

It turned out, she couldn’t really keep him hostage, either. After Fenris had left, Anders had just gone silent, staring at the floor, planning his escape, or just hating her with everything he had left within him, she assumed. He refused to look at her, refused to speak to her, shuddering away from her feeble attempts at conciliatory affection or her frantic apologies. She’d left on the verge of tears, finding her role as his jailer unbearable, locking the door behind her, knowing full well it would be insufficient to contain him should he decide to make his move now. But she couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye.

She didn’t know what to do. Maybe she was hoping to catch up with Fenris at the Hanged Man? To beg him to stay. Or to leave with him? Maybe, if they could drag Anders away from this cursed city...he wouldn't come willingly, but perhaps, in time, he'd forgive them? Or maybe she could enlist the help of Isabela or Varric or anyone, really, who might be able to talk some sense into him? Merrill might better understand what was going on with him and Justice. Could the spirit really break his soul any more than it already was if he took over?

But Fenris wasn’t there. And the rest of them seemed to realize what she was having the hardest time accepting. Before she’d even finished explaining what Glavonak had told her and Fenris earlier that afternoon in between incomprehensible sobs, Varric had insisted they head to the Chantry immediately to try to stop him.

...

Hawke was on the Chantry steps again. This was all too familiar. The buzz. The flash. The heart-stopping explosion. Except this time, Fenris wasn’t there to bear the brunt of her anger and disappointment. He wasn’t there to stop her, to catch her. He had left. He had given up. On everything. She felt the same urge, maybe even stronger than before, to rush into the flames. To fight them, because she had nothing and no one else left to fight. She felt everything spiralling out of her control. But Varric finally pulled her away from the disaster this time. Hawke felt herself break entirely from the inside out just like before. She was fighting, swinging, kicking and screaming on the inside, unable to breathe, while the world around her felt numb and empty all over again.

_What a shitty fucking dream._

“It’s okay.”

 _Fenris_.

“Hawke, it’s okay.” She felt something pulling her shoulder back, laying her out flat, opening up her chest, unraveling her body from the tight clenched thing it had become.

“Fenris, you left us…”

“I’m right here. You were dreaming.”

“Oh no! I didn’t...did I?” She made an effort to sit up, to leap out of the bed away from him, but he held her shoulders down with a gentle firmness that she was in no state to resist.

“No. I don’t think it was _that_ kind of dream.”

“No, it definitely wasn’t,” she realized out loud, as she tried to steady herself, to fill her lungs, to clear her head of panic enough to figure out what was real and what was not.

“Just...breathe. Please? You’re currently doing a really terrible job of it.”

After a few minutes, after her breathing had become less shallow, less desperate, he confessed, “I was dreaming, too.”

“The explosion?” Somehow, she already knew.

“Yes.”

“But you left!”

“Not quite.”

She laid there for awhile, breathing in, then out, trying to recall parts of the dream that were quickly slipping away from her now that she was awake. She _wanted_ to let it all go, of course. To banish these things from her heart and her mind forever, not to relive them again and again, but there was something there that she was missing. Something different from before.

Suddenly, it dawned on her. “Oh no, Fenris...you didn’t?”

“It was only a dream.”

“More like a nightmare!”

“Yes. More like that, I suppose.”

“I didn’t think that day could’ve gotten much worse than it was, but this...”

Fenris looked away from her. He couldn’t help but feel somehow responsible. He didn’t know how or why it would’ve been his fault, but the fact that they were having the _same_ dream concerned him. And the particulars of it. It seemed to have manifested directly from _his_ subconscious guilt and regrets. If he hadn't allowed his own dreams to concoct a relationship between the three of them, this entire painful scenario wouldn't have been playing itself out in both of their heads.

“Wait. Are you... _holding_ me?”

Of course he was. She knew he was. He’d been holding her down for a few minutes now. But suddenly, it occurred to her that he’d never put so much of himself in contact with so much of her before. At least not willingly, and not while awake. He was leaning over her, his knees pressed up against her side, his chest and stomach resting on top of her torso with his arms splayed out across her shoulders, pressing her whole upper body open with the calming weight of his own.

“Yes. I...didn’t know what else to do. You were flailing your arms and legs around like a madwoman. I tried to wake you up, but you started shuddering and hyperventilating, so...”

“Thank you.”

He was watching her face for anymore signs of panic, feeling her chest rise and fall more regularly now. Her arms and her shoulders and her jaw, her entire body felt far more relaxed beneath him than it’d been just a few moments ago.

“I can breathe now. You can get up if you want.”

“Yes. Right.” He sat up, but he did not stand up from the bed and put more distance between them like she expected he’d been wanting to.

“Why?”

“I just told you...you were freaking out. It’s a thing I learned from Isabela. She called it something asinine, like ‘hug therapy’ or something, but it works, doesn’t it?”

“Not _that_. In the dream. Why did you go to the Chantry?”

"Oh." Fenris thought about it for a moment. “I don’t know. To try to stop him? To save him?”

“But you didn’t. You knew you couldn’t.”

“I guess I just didn’t want him to be alone.”

Hawke was silent for a moment. “That’s -- Fenris... _fuck!_ ” She curled back up a little, feeling a fresh round of panicked sobs at the thought of _both_ of them dying in the explosion.

 _But at least he wasn’t alone_.

Fenris reached a hand up, placing it back on her shoulder and pushing her gently back down onto the bed. “It was just a dream, Hawke.”

“It certainly didn’t feel like it.”

“No. They never do.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno what it is, but the closer these two get, the more self-conscious I get about writing about them! I also hope I did Justice some justice here (heh heh). And this is not an anti-Anders piece, either. He was right. It just really sucked for his friends.
> 
> (For the 'actual' way this went down in this slightly canon-divergent situation, see [Part I: Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14530383/chapters/33572619) in this series.)


	7. A Sweeter Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric presses Isabela for a plan, and also reminds Hawke what they left behind in Kirkwall. Hawke gets to wake Fenris up from another dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex. Just sleep-spooning.

\---

“Rivaini…”

“Varric, we’ve been over this…call me Captain, please. It’s disrespectful in front of the rest of the crew…” She nodded toward Hawke, who was just sitting there, staring dumbly back at them as she chewed on a piece of old leathery jerky she’d found in the ship’s larder earlier that morning, and then toward Fenris and Merrill, who were on opposite sides of the ship racing to see who could get their anchor up faster.

“Fine!” he huffed. “ _Captain_ Rivaini…”

“Yes, Fourth-and- _Last_ -Mate Varric?”

“Any idea when we might see land?”

“Not long now, dear. We’ll be near Brandel’s Reach in the next few days, but if we end up overshooting it, or if things get dicey, we’ll aim for Alamar, and that’s fine, too. The only people on either island who might give a shit about who we are or where we’ve come from will be other pirates or bounty hunters, and well, if they’re after us, then we’ll know it’s probably not safe to go anywhere more… _established_ , with a Chantry or Templars."

“…or couriers…?”

Hawke laughed, nearly choking on her little snack.

Varric turned and glared at her. “Glad you think this is so funny, Hawke.”

After a few coughs, she managed to sputter, “Sorry, it’s just – “ She hacked a few more times before finally dislodging the chunk of dehydrated meat that had gotten stuck in the back of her throat. “You know I love seeing you get so grumpy, Varric! What’ve you got going on that makes you so eager to send a letter? Have you taken a new lover? Should I be jealous?!”

“You’d be the first to know if I were looking. Trust me.”

“Then why the rush? I think there’s like, five more pounds of this jerky below deck, and we haven’t completely run out of alcohol _yet_. Are you really that sick of us?”

“Uh, a couple of book deals? A family trade empire to manage? An insane brother in need of constant care and supervision because of blighted lyrium sickness? An entire city we all  _used_ to call home whose fate remains a mystery after Blondie blew half of it up? Should I continue, or is that enough for you?”

Hawke waved her hand, tearing off another chunk of jerky with her teeth. “Meh…fuck ‘em. Bartrand was always a dick, anyway.”

“Your own _sister_ and one of your best friends are, presumably, still there, Hawke. I hope. Or, if not, I hope they’re at least still alive _somewhere_.”

Hawke stopped chewing. It wasn’t that she had _forgotten_ Bethany and Aveline had been left behind in the chaos. It was just that she preferred not to think about it. Losing Anders was enough to process right now. Losing them, too, would’ve been unfathomable.

Fenris and Merrill had returned, with no clear victor in their anchor-hoisting, though Fenris was considerably more out-of-breath than the little mage, who couldn’t hide her smugness, as hard as she tried. Without a word, Isabela nodded cautiously toward Varric and Hawke. It wasn’t clear if they were about to come to blows or burst into tears. Maybe both.

“I’m not -- I didn’t mean…” Hawke sputtered, all the amused irreverence banished from her face.

At the same time, Varric’s irritability gave way to sudden contrition. “Shit. I’m sorry. That was...really shitty.”

“No, you’re right. We should... _I_ should have -- ”

“We did what we had to. I’m sorry for bringing it up. I’m just getting anxious, and taking it out on you isn’t fair.”

“But I _should_ be more worried about them! We could go back…” She turned toward Isabela, suddenly frantic and pleading. “If we sailed directly back to Kirkwall, how long do you think it would take?”

“Whoa now, let’s all calm our tits! Aveline was clear. She was going to tell everyone we died in the Chantry with Anders. If we showed up now, not only would we be in deep shit, but so would she. We’d all be implicated as accomplices. And, as much as I do enjoy handcuffs every now and then, I prefer the kind that come with a key for when bondage loses its charm.”

Fenris shot her a disgruntled look, and she smirked in his general direction. She was _just_ trying to deflect some of the desperation that had overtaken Hawke.

“Isabela, please?” She begged.

Merrill was looking back and forth between Hawke and Isabela, matching the former’s desperation without entirely meaning to.

Isabela shot her a betrayed look. She definitely couldn’t take _both_ of them ganging up on her like this. “What? I loved that raggedy asshole, too, but I’m not going to be hanged for his shit. Martyrdom just doesn’t suit me.”

Merrill looked back pitiably at Hawke. “I’m sorry, lethallan...”

“But what about Bethany!? If you don’t think Meredith would’ve tried to take revenge on the mages in her custody, on my _sister_ , in particular…”

It was Varric’s turn again to try and reason with her. “You know I respect your skills in combat, but you were in no shape to go and save your sister. It’s been almost a month. I’m sure Aveline is running the place by now. And she wouldn’t let anything happen to Bethany.”

“I could’ve taken Meredith,” Hawke grumbled. But she knew they were right. She’d relived that moment enough now in her dreams. _She_ had been the one in need of saving.

Fenris stepped closer toward her. “Aveline was already on her way to find her when we left. Don’t underestimate the ferocity of her love for you and your family. Or Bethany’s ability to protect herself.”

“I don’t, but it’s just, she’s all I had left.” Fenris felt her eyes drifting toward his wrist, to the scrap of shirt he had tied around it. As she felt her chest begin to tighten, she wanted to grab it and hold it close to her, but it was his. She’d given it to him. She continued shakily, “With Mother gone and Carver in the Wardens, if anything happened to Bethany, I don’t know what I’d do.”

Fenris inhaled sharply, then hastily reached down and grabbed Hawke’s hand, pressing his fabric-wrapped wrist and forearm against hers. He looked up at Varric and their eyes met briefly. What had the dwarf been thinking bringing this up?

Varric shook his head, reaching for Hawke’s other arm and patting it gently. “Let’s see what we can find out when we land. We’ll decide what to do once we know a bit more. And we’ll find _some_ way to send word to Kirkwall. I’m sure Aveline and Bethany are both just as worried about _you_.”

…

That night, Hawke laid awake, listening to Fenris’ soft snoring from across the room, trying not to think of the worst of the things that might have happened in the weeks since they’d left Kirkwall. Meredith had been ready to declare war on every mage that ever existed for awhile now. Even the Divine herself had seemed incapable of restraining her hatred and fear of magic. And Anders knew that. Which is why he’d done what he did. To give her a reason to expose just how harsh and punitive the Templars, and the Chantry who enabled them, could be, and incite an uprising against all of it.

But he could have at least warned Bethany, even if he didn’t think he could tell Hawke about his plans. Maybe he did? Maybe she’d escaped in the chaos. Or maybe Aveline had gotten to her in time, and they were both fugitives now as well. If that were the case, how were they ever going to find each other again?

Hard as she tried to imagine all the possible best case scenarios, she knew Aveline wouldn’t have abandoned her post and her duties as Captain of the City Guard if she thought there was even the tiniest bit of hope in helping to keep order, and she knew her sister well enough to know that she probably would’ve stayed and fought to protect her fellow mages if it came down to a fight between the Templars and them. And what would Carver do if he found out that _both_ his sisters had disappeared from Kirkwall?

Idiots, all of them. Who did they think they were? _Her_?! _She_ had been the one in charge of looking after them. _She_ had promised their father she’d never let anything happen to her little brother and sister. And now, all of them were scattered and lost, at best. She couldn't bear to imagine the worst case scenarios.

She was so deep in anxious thought that she hadn’t even noticed that Fenris had stopped snoring, had shuffled across the room, and was in the process of slipping into bed next to her.

“Fenris? What are you --” she asked, a bit surprised to feel another body, let alone  _his_ body, moving in the dark next to her.

Maybe he could sense her panic, and was going to try more of Isabela’s so-called ‘hug therapy’ to calm her. Which would’ve been fine, of course. She’d been relatively touch-starved for nearly a month, though she’d begun to resume her old, familial, affectionate habits with the others. But casual cuddling was not something she’d ever known Fenris to take part in.

“Good morning, amatus…” he muttered into the back of her neck as he nudged her over, rolling her onto her side away from him, and nuzzling in closer behind her. _Amatus_ , and _spooning_ , really? Well, _this_ was completely unexpected.

Also, while it was difficult to know what time it was from a cabin inside the hull of a ship, Hawke was pretty sure it wasn’t morning.

 _Shit_. He was dreaming again, wasn’t he?

“Fenris?” she whispered, far too gently, reluctant to wake him, even though she knew she was supposed to. They’d both agreed that if either of them seemed to be dreaming and, more importantly, acting on their dreams, they’d wake the other.

But it wasn’t sex, like it had been that first time. And he wasn’t freaking out, like she’d been before. It was just a little snuggle. Surely, no one should feel violated by that. What was the harm in letting him continue?

“I love you, Marian,” he purred in that irresistibly low, gravelly growl of his, pressing himself even further against her back and burying his face into her shoulder. She could feel his knees sliding into the crook of her legs, his elbows tucked tightly against her back, and Maker, she was trying so damn hard not to think about what it was that was pressing into the back of her upper thigh. If she could just fall asleep, then it wouldn’t be up to _her_ to put a stop to this, now would it?

But her heart was racing. Sleep was an impossibility with an attractive elf shifting so temptingly against her. And there was, of course, the fact that allowing him to continue would be a complete violation of the promise they’d made to each other, a breach of trust, and she’d be taking advantage of him, against his conscious wishes. She resolved to wake him up. Before things got too embarrassing for them both again.

“You too, mage…” he chuckled in his sleep, just as she prepared to clear her throat.

 _Too late._ She absolutely _hated_ that she had to do this.

“Fenris!” she hissed, much louder than she wanted to.

She expected him to wake up in a panic. She braced herself for him to shudder away from her or to throw her halfway across the room. But it didn’t seem to be working.

She pulled away from him and reached back reluctantly, tapping his chest. She wasn’t sure how he’d react to being touched _outside_ of his dream, but she didn’t have too many other options. Her plan was to try and jostle him just enough that he would wake up, and she could pretend she’d slept through the whole thing, allowing him to move back to his own bunk, thinking she hadn’t even noticed him there.

 _A flawless plan_ , she told herself.

But he only responded by wrapping himself even more tightly around her, his arms circling around her waist and pulling her back towards him. She couldn’t ignore the growing bulge between them now as he rocked against her. She clenched her thighs together and tucked her rear end up and away from him, but it only seemed to encourage his playful maneuvering. Thank the Maker she was still wearing pants.

“Fenris! Wake up!” she shouted, fighting against every aching urge in her body. This wasn’t him, he’d insisted. And the person in his dreams wasn’t her. And Anders was gone. And...

“The children are still sleeping,” he murmured into her ear.

“Fuck! _Children_?” She said out loud.

His hands slid around to her stomach and he grasped her abdomen. What was it with people touching her belly in dreams?! “The best thing you two ever gave me…” he sighed.

She wanted to scream. The uncharacteristic contentment in his voice, the silly little smile on his face, all of it was heartbreaking. Heartbreaking enough that she needed to put a stop to this. Now.

More violent tactics would be necessary, it seemed. She scooted away from him again, prying his hands off of her as he whimpered and tried to grab her and pull her back against him.

“You’re dreaming. It sounds like a lovely little dream, and I wish I was having it with you, but I promised to wake you if this ever happened again.” She sighed, “I’m sorry. I really am.”

She shoved him off the bed, hard, and he hit the ground with a loud thud. His lyrium markings lit up bright, filling the room with white-blue light.

“Ow,” he said, sounding more surprised than hurt. She held her breath as she heard him shuffling around a bit, no doubt trying to figure out how he’d ended up on the floor next to her bed. Then, after a few moments, his brands went dimmer again, and he seemed to come to at least a partial understanding. “I am awake,” he reported up to her.

She was still planning on pretending to be asleep, if he would let her. She didn’t want to have to tell him what he’d been mumbling about, didn’t want him to know that she’d been privy to this domestic fantasy, and didn’t want to spend anymore time thinking about how sweet it all seemed.

“Hawke?” There was a quiet need in his voice, though, as he called up to her, seeking forgiveness. Or something else, maybe...reassurance? Comfort? As much as it had pained her to wake him, she could only imagine how it must’ve hurt for him to realize he had only been dreaming.

“Yeah?” She tried to sound a little confused, like she’d been sleeping, too, refusing to turn and see that something-else in his eyes.

“Was I…?”

“Nothing happened.” There was no point in pretending she hadn’t been fully awake, she realized. “You were being super adorable. Just go back to sleep.”

“Oh. Sorry. That is not like me at all,” he laughed softly.

It was the same little laugh from before, only a lot sadder. Hawke could swear she felt her heart shatter. How many hearts could a person go through in a month?

“No, _I’m_ sorry for having to wake you up from what seemed to be a very nice dream.” She leaned over the edge of her bed, finally peering down at him, still sprawled out on the floor. “But you made me promise…”

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her. Relieved and vulnerable and a little embarrassed all at once.

Fenris had said _thank you_ before, or at least expressed begrudging appreciation for things, like allowing him to kill Hadriana, though that had quickly turned into an argument, and from there into angry kissing, and then he’d stormed off and they’d never spoken of that moment again. And for having his back against Danarius. Even talking him out of killing his sister after she’d betrayed him. He had still mumbled some kind of acknowledgment to her before disappearing to brood alone for a few days. He could certainly be cool and standoffish, but he wasn’t an ingrate, and he appreciated their friendship as much as she did. She knew this well enough that it didn’t _really_ need to be said.

But the look on his face as he very earnestly and openly expressed his gratitude to her now was different, and she didn’t quite know what to make of that. Or of any of the rest of this, either.

“I can’t sleep. I need to go find something to drink,” she muttered. “Care to join me?”

“Yes. I don’t suppose I’ll be doing any more sleeping tonight, either.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be a lot longer, but I decided to split it into two chapters. Hopefully, the next one won't take me so long to put up!


	8. Worth It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke needs a drink. Probably not a whole bottle of whiskey, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex. Just unhealthy coping mechanisms.

\---

They made their way in silence to the galley, Hawke leading the way, and Fenris trailing behind her trying to deal with the lingering disorientation of waking up so abruptly. He was grateful that Hawke did not seem all that eager to immediately talk about what had happened.

It wasn’t hard to find some booze, a half-empty bottle that had been left on the table from dinner, more shitty wine that Isabela had inherited with the ship. They were beginning to run low on anything of passable quality, though, unless Isabela was hoarding the good stuff in her own quarters, which seemed unlikely, since she could hardly tell the difference.

Hawke grabbed it first, taking a long swig in hopes of forgetting as quickly as possible how it had felt to be held again by someone who dreamt about having children with her, before handing the bottle over to Fenris.

“Sooo…” she said, as she so often used to do, while trying to think of something innocuous to talk to him about. Her lips quirked into a smile wondering how many times she’d said this exact same thing, in the exact same tone. It seemed ridiculous now, after all that they’d been through recently, to try to make small talk with him.

“Mmmm…” he muttered, as he almost always did in ritualistic response, half-heartedly attempting to dissuade her from engaging him in idle chit chat, but expecting her to carry on with it anyway, as she usually did.

It was a familiar thing, being bothered by Hawke. And he realized it’d been one of the things he’d missed the most this past month as she moped around the ship, lost in her own mournful thoughts, though she had been acting more and more like herself lately. Well, until Varric had to go and bring up her sister and Aveline earlier that day.

He took as big a gulp of the wine as he could bear, then wiped it off of his mouth with the back of his hand in disgust. It was really terrible. He looked at the label, just to make sure it wasn’t another one of Isabela’s surprise bottles from the maintenance cabinet. Nope. Wine, or so it claimed to be. Made from actual grapes. Orlesian, it seemed. Well, _that_ would explain it. They were always trying too hard at everything in Orlais, and the way they overdid the wine-making process was no exception.

When Hawke remained silent, none of her usual questions prodding at him (“How’s the mansion?” or “Read any good books lately?” or “Have you heard from your sister?”), he looked up from the bottle, a bit surprised to see her half-smiling back at him, an inquisitive twinkle in her blue-green eyes.

“What?” he asked, sounding a bit harsher than he had intended to. He wasn’t used to being the one asking the questions, just deflecting them.

“Nothing,” she said, the grin still spreading across her face. It was kind of fun being mysteriously quiet for a change, she thought. And the bewildered look she was getting from Fenris actually made her want to keep it up.

“Are you okay, Hawke?”

“I guess,” she shrugged, the smile fading as she thought about it a bit more. No. She really wasn’t. But he knew that already.

“I mean...you know...with _everything_.”

She suddenly burst into laughter, all attempts at being reserved and mysterious suddenly sabotaged by the ridiculousness of his question. And Fenris couldn’t help but join her.

“Ok, that was perhaps a bit vague,” he sighed, once their cackling had subsided.

“A bit...yes,” she smiled. “But to answer your question, aside from the obvious things I’m _not_ okay with, which is pretty much everything having to do with Anders and the mess we left back in Kirkwall...”

“That _is_ fair...”

“...I’m so sick of _fish_! Pickled vegetables, fruit preserves, hardtack, jerky...fine with all of that. But I am so _over_ fish. The sight, the _smell_ …” She shuddered. Even just thinking about it made her nauseous.

“You’ll get no argument from me there.”

Fenris tried to take another swig to finish off the bottle, but he couldn’t bring himself to drink any more of it, so he passed it back to Hawke, who took a deep breath and swallowed it down like she was taking a shot.

“Things I _am_ actually okay with, though -- Varric and Isabela bickering with each other like an old married couple. Or no! More like siblings, I suppose. Siblings who maybe at some point in their lives, have thought about fucking each other. Angrily. Before realizing they were siblings, maybe? I dunno. It’s fucked up, but...”

“It describes their relationship quite well.” Fenris nodded. He was relieved that Hawke’s re-emerging chattiness was seemingly enough to override all the awkwardness that had brought them here in search of alcohol to begin with.

“Right? Also, Merrill and Isabela being adorable and in love. I am very much a fan of that, too.”

“You should talk to Isabela about it. I think she needs someone besides me pestering her to admit she may actually have _feelings_.”

Hawke’s eyes flashed with sudden concern. “If she hurts Merrill...”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that.”

“But this has been building for _years_! What is her deal?”

“ _Isabela_ is just...well, terrified.”

“I mean... _yeah_! But aren’t we all?”

Hawke tried not to notice the way Fenris’ ears dipped self-consciously and his cheeks darkened at the realization that Merrill and Isabela could very well be having the same conversation about them.

She wasn’t drunk enough for this. “Oh! And...your snoring! I’m okay with that, too. In fact, I don’t think I could sleep without it now.” She teased, hoping to deflect the serious turn the conversation was on the verge of taking.

“I _don’t_ snore.”

“You do!”

“I think I would know if I -- “

“How? When’s the last time you slept in the same room as someone else?”

Fenris had to think. Isabela had spent the night at his place enough times that he was pretty sure she considered it more of a home than the tiny, dingy room she kept at the Hanged Man for ‘business purposes,’ but she usually found her way to one of the other half a dozen or so bedrooms in Danarius’ estate. Even when he lived with Danarius as a slave, he had been granted the luxury of his own private quarters, as his master’s special pet project. It must’ve been before...when he was still just another young elf, undifferentiated from the other property, sleeping in the common bunk area of the slave quarters, perhaps next to his sister or mother, and if anyone had told him he snored back then, well, he wouldn’t have remembered anyway.

“It’s been awhile, I guess.”

Hawke had been watching him as he contemplated this. The same curious look in her eyes as before, though she wasn’t smirking this time. She looked more concerned than amused. She’d been trying to enjoy a little banter, trying to recreate the kind of conversation they might’ve had during a reading lesson, or on their way to hunt slavers on the Wounded Coast. She just wanted to restore some normalcy to their relationship.

But things were different now. She’d always just tried to err on the side of caution before, avoiding anything that she thought might possibly upset him, and apologizing profusely at the slightest hint of his discomfort. Maybe this was part of the reason why he hated her apologies. It certainly made it hard to connect with someone when you put so much effort into tiptoeing around them, always worried about offending them.

Recent events had made it clear to her that there was a lot more than just brooding and anger and irritation going on between the words Fenris so carefully chose. And as much as she wanted to respect his boundaries, she found herself wanting to know more about _that_. All the spaces he left...between words, people, everything.

“What about you, Fenris?” she asked. It wasn’t like one of her normal ‘making small talk’ questions that she would have maybe once used just to fill any uncomfortable silence that tended to arise between them. This was more open. More exploratory. It left...room.

“What about me _what_?” Fenris’ first instinct was to avoid such an open invitation to talk about himself. The way she was looking at him, like she was finally actually trying to look at _him_ , not at all of his baggage and sharp bristling edges, was a little intense. He could take it from Isabela because, well, she was _her_ , and he could see right through all of her shit, too. But Hawke was an entirely different situation. There was just so much between them he couldn’t figure out how to deal with, let alone talk about. Was she asking about the dream? About Anders? Or about his opinion on fish?

“Are _you_ okay?"

“I miss him, too. You know this.” He waved his wrist at her impatiently, as if the matter had been settled long ago and was pointless to discuss any further. It had only been a few weeks, and they’d hardly talked about it at all.

She nodded, a little smile of acknowledgment, and waited for him to decide whether or not he wished to say anymore.

“And I _also_ am sick of fish. Though to be honest, I’ve never really enjoyed it.”

Hawke laughed, but still resisted the urge to take over the conversation as silence fell between them again. For a moment. Another moment. An unbearably long minute or two.

“And I suppose, I’m...worried,” he sighed.

“About what?”

“About the state of the world in general?” He paused, considering whether or not it was a good time to discuss the giant terrifying elephant in the room. His dreams. What they meant. Why they might be haunting them both. “We don’t really know what this is...why it’s happening.”

Hawke looked at him, a bit puzzled.

“The dreams, I mean.”

“Oh! I just figured it was...I dunno...because we both miss Anders?”

“But what if it’s more than just dreams? What if something is trying to trap us in the Fade? Or worse...what if something is trying to use us to get _out_?”

“Pft! I’ve been in the Fade. I’ve faced demons and spirits before.” She tossed her head back, pushing her hair out of her face with exaggerated pluckiness.

This was the dangerously dauntless Hawke they’d all thought had maybe died and been left in the rubble of the Chantry, suddenly peeking out from behind the massive wall of misery she’d built around herself for the past few weeks. Fenris was happy to see it again, if it meant she was feeling more like herself, but unconvinced that his fears about their dreams were unfounded.

“As have _I_ , Hawke,” he reminded her.

“Oh shit. That's right.”

The illusion of her unfazeability was ruined, and Fenris felt a little guilty.

“Sorry...” The apology was out of her mouth before she could even think to stop herself. _Damnit, s_ he thought.

“Fasta vass...why would _you_ apologize?!”

“I mean. I sort of dragged you all there with me, didn’t I?”

“Hawke, I betrayed you for power promised to me by a demon!”

“Yeah, but like, I _killed_ you over it. I mean, in the Fade, but still...it _felt_ like I was killing you for real.”

“Well, I am pretty sure I tried to kill you first, sooo…”

“So we’re even, then.”

“... _fi_ _ne_ ,” he growled.

“Good,” she actually looked quite satisfied with herself now. “It all worked out, though, didn’t it? Last I heard from him, Feynriel was doing well.”

“‘Doing well’ in Tevinter for a half-elf mage Dreamer with little wealth or resources could still mean a lot of... _un_ _pleasant_ things.”

Maybe this wasn’t the best thing to have brought up as she was trying to reassure Fenris that his dreams of another life with her and Anders were _no big deal_.

And then, there they were, staring at each other again. Anger, worry, grief, and fear back with a vengeance. They’d been able to escape them for a bit, but the few sips of wine had done nothing to help drown any of these things out.

“I need something stronger than this, if we’re going to actually have _this_ conversation.” She held up the empty wine bottle. “Whiskey would be nice. Maker, what I wouldn’t give for some Mackay’s...”

She was reminded of the bottle she and Anders had shared all those years ago, and on special occasions since, in remembrance of Karl. After their very first kiss. And then followed by so many more as they stumbled through Lowtown together drunk on good booze, and fond memories, and each other’s company after nearly three years of flirting and frustrated pining finally coming to a head on Anders’ former lover’s birthday.

She and Fenris, on the other hand, had started with a frustrated kiss that seemed to have come out of nowhere, followed by years of pretending it had never happened and had meant nothing. And now, here they were. Stuck on a ship, forced to deal with feelings for one another that could only have been revealed by the pain of losing Anders.

It was Fenris’ turn to watch as she retreated into her own thoughts. He assumed she was thinking only of the mage, as her eyes looked past him, through the wall of the store room, past the hull of the ship back west toward Kirkwall. He knew that the whiskey had special significance to them because it was often times the only thing Hawke could persuade Anders to drink. “For him!” she would whisper, pressing the glass to the mage’s pouting lips and straining to kiss the side of his face when he was in a particularly sour mood, his anxiety making him almost unbearable to be around. He would usually sigh, and take the glass from her, nursing it over the course of the evening as he gradually grew more pleasant.

Fenris wondered if he should leave. To give her some privacy to reminisce about a relationship he had no part in. But something told him Hawke did not want to be alone.

 _Just be there._ Isabela’s words in his head again. He waited. He could do that.

Hawke sighed, blinking back a few tears, finally meeting his patient gaze. “C’mon…” she grabbed his wrist, the one he’d tied Anders’ shirt around, without thinking, and froze for a moment, staring at it, expecting him to shrug her off or pull away. To her surprise, and maybe his as well, he didn’t even flinch. She tried not to think too much of it. “Let’s go find more booze, and then maybe we can figure all this shit out!”

...

Fenris didn’t really wish to get drunk, and he didn’t enjoy liquor nearly as much as _good_ wine, but he wasn’t going to begrudge Hawke her desire to indulge. He helped her rummage through the galley’s supply room, holding up several bottles of unmarked liquid for her inspection. She’d take a sniff or a sip and express her dissatisfaction (‘Not strong enough!’ or ‘What is this? Piss?!’) before moving on to the next. Fenris finally found a little locked cabinet in the corner that looked promising, but Hawke had left her lockpicking kit back in their quarters, so he just phased through it, destroying the entire locking mechanism and half the door.

“Impressive!” she exclaimed. She’d only ever seen him use his ability to rip organs out of his enemies or phase through them entirely to gain an advantage at decapitating them from behind with his giant sword.

“Not the finesse job that you or Isabela or Varric might have managed,” he smirked.

“It’ll do just fine! This must be where Castillon kept his good stuff!”

She was beaming greedily at the contents of the little cabinet, and Fenris feared she might try to drink it all tonight, but after some deliberation, she selected a bottle of traditional Fereldan whiskey with a mabari on the label. “I miss Pork…” she sighed, clutching the bottle close to her chest.

“I’m sure Orana has been taking good care of her. And if not, she is quite resourceful and intelligent. She always managed to find her way to my place on the nights we played Diamondback because she knew a gathering of increasingly drunken people with an inability to say no to her begging awaited her.”

“So that’s where she was always sneaking off to?! I hope you’re right. That old girl has seen me through thick and thin. I hate to think of her just waiting at home for me.”

Hawke’s eyes had gone watery again. She looked back down at the bottle. “Shall we go enjoy this with some fresh sea air? It’s better that way...” And it would also be easier to hide the fact that she was constantly on the verge of tears.

“Sure.”

They headed up above to the deck of the ship, toward the bow, Hawke perching up high near the bowsprit, with her face in the warm wind that was coming across the sea from the north, and Fenris nestling up against the side of the ship downwind of her.

“So.” Hawke broke first, turning to face him, after a couple of long sips of whiskey. “Where were we?” The wind had whipped away any sign of her earlier tears.

“So?” He raised his eyebrows, a bit dismayed, but not unamused by her. “Not _only_ have we tried to murder each other in the Fade, but we can add sex to the list of regrettable things we’ve done there, too. You honestly don’t see a worrying pattern here?”

“Well, the sex was technically happening _outside_ of the Fade, with each other, I mean. In the Fade, it was with Anders, if you recall,” she corrected him with an irritatingly smug little grin.

“Shouldn’t that worry you even _more_?! Our record seems pretty poor measuring on _either_ side of the Veil.”

“I guess I was just assuming you don’t typically dream about killing me. That was kind of a one-time thing, right?”

“Well, I certainly dream about things besides having sex with the mage," he grumbled.

“Like having children?”

“Excuse me?”

“The ones you were dreaming about tonight. Before I shoved you out of bed.”

“Oh.” Fenris looked down at the deck of the ship, wondering where he might end up if he activated his lyrium brands and just phased through it.

“I believe you said they were ‘the best thing’ Anders and I ever gave you?”

“Hawke, I can’t…that’s not...”

“Tell me about them.”

Her tone had completely changed from her earlier playfulness to a more urgent plea. He looked up and saw it in her eyes, too. They were searching him, begging him to share this little piece of happiness with her. He already had a hard enough time saying no to her in normal circumstances, but this was an all-new level of need. He was relieved that _she_ was the only one getting drunk tonight.

“Please, Fenris?” Her voice grew softer, but her eyes were no less desperate.

He swallowed, unable to deny her this. “They’re..." he began, trying to pretend he wasn’t already in love with the imaginary children they had in his dreams, but he couldn’t contain the look of fondness on his face, even as he looked away from her again. "They're amazing," he whispered.

“Of course they are,” she smiled, a tear rolling down her cheek.

Anders and she had tried. _Maker_ , they’d tried. But the Darkspawn taint had left him infertile. They’d tried a number of magical and non-magical remedies, enlisting Justice’s aid at times, and even considered adopting a few of the orphans they’d come across among the refugees in Darktown or patched up in Anders’ clinic. But as life got harder, more complicated, more tense, and Anders became less present, less able to manage his righteous fury with the world, Hawke realized that it was probably better that they hadn’t ever been able to conceive, and they stopped trying, stopped discussing it. Stopped speaking about a future with a family, with each other, altogether.

“What do they look like?” she whispered, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremble in her voice over the waves and the wind lapping at the ship.

“Are you sure you want to hear this? It’s all just fantasy...the Fade _can_ be very cruel, as you know.”

“Tell me,” she demanded more loudly, fighting heartbreak with defiance. The whiskey had begun to take its effect, though he wasn’t certain if this was the direction Hawke had intended to take the conversation when she had said she needed a drink earlier.

“Very well,” he sighed. “Our daughter is the spitting image of _him_. Strawberry-blonde hair, a long angular nose. Freckles. Big, sad doe eyes, which she employs to get whatever she wants. She’s tall like him, but also strong, and nimble, like you. When you want to be.”

“Fuck. Why do you get all the _nice_ dreams?”

“I’m sorry. I told you this wasn’t -- “

“No, you can’t stop now! You said there were _children_. Tell me about the other ones.”

“Just one more. Our son.”

“Tell me about him, then.”

“He, unfortunately, bears a striking resemblance to me. Though his ears are smaller, less pronounced, than mine. He’s smaller than his sister, which suits him, because, unlike his sister, he doesn’t enjoy being the center of attention. And he has dark hair like yours, and the most beautiful, expressive eyes. He’s not very talkative like his sister is, but he _is_ very empathetic. Both of them have your eye color. It’s one of the only things that makes them look like they could be related.”

“Are they happy?”

“They are. We are surprisingly decent parents. The _three_ of us,” he winced, and his hand went to his other wrist to touch the scrap of fabric there. “They are twins.”

“How is _that_ possible?”

“It’s a dream, Hawke.”

“Right, I know, but…” Hawke was trying unsuccessfully to hide her tears, choking back grief and love for children who’d never existed.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I knew it would be painful.”

“It’s not for you?” she managed to gasp in between the sobs that were threatening to break free from her throat.

“Yes. Of course it is. I loved him, too. But I never shared those feelings with him. Never found out if he might return them.”

“I think he could have loved you, too. I think he probably even _did_ love you. If he’d have known...”

“We’ll never know.”

“What are their names?"

“I don’t know. Strange, right?”

“Well, it _is_ the fucking Fade...” She took another long drink from the whiskey bottle and turned back to face into the wind.

After a few minutes of staring out at the sea again, she hopped down next to him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For telling me about them.”

“I’m not sure it was the _kindest_ thing to do.”

“No. But…” she stopped herself abruptly, fidgeting.

“What, Hawke?”

“I wish I could have seen them. In your dream.” An embarrassed smile had found its way onto her face. “Maybe if you slept beside me…?”

“I’m not sure if it works that way.”

“No. Probably not. But at least then I’d be sleeping next to you.”

She leaned ever-so-slightly closer to him. He could feel the warmth of her body next to his, even though they weren't actually touching and he felt his brands itching. He couldn't decide whether he wanted to lean the rest of the way into her and close the tiny gap between them or shove her away.

“I don’t think that’s -- ”

“Right, right...I know. That’s not you. And it’s not me. And Anders is dead. And our beautiful children that you made up aren’t real, either. And blah blah blah…but _you’re_ the one fantasizing about the three of us! Not that I _mind_ , but...”

“You are quite a bit less delicate when you drink, you know that?” He smiled. “But I’m not drunk, and making love to you while _you are_ is no more honorable or desirable to me than violating you in your sleep.”

“It’s just _sleeping_ next to each other!”

“Do you really think that’s all it would be? Is that all _you_ would want it to be?”

“Well, no, but…”

“We are both hurting. I don’t want to rush into something just because we are in pain. In my experience, that doesn't end well.”

“I don’t want that, either.” She was pouting now, because she knew he was right. “But I think I’m falling in love with you, if it’s any consolation.”

She took another long sip of her whiskey, reminding him that she was drunk and that none of this probably meant anything.

“I may never be good at this,” he sighed. “Whatever it is. Whatever comes of it. It will never be…easy.”

“What in this life worth having comes easy?”

“You make a fair point, I guess.” He didn’t quite sound convinced, but he was at least still smiling at her.

“It’s just a stupid thing that people say, isn’t it? I mean, honestly, I would _love_ for everything to be easy.”

Fenris chuckled. “Me too.”

“But I still think you’re worth it,” she whispered into the bottle as she took one final sip, then stared down at her own feet, which were beginning to fail her under the demands of the swaying ship and her rapidly-increasing drunkenness.

He pretended not to hear her. It was the alcohol talking, obviously. Still, he couldn’t help but feel that at least some of the pink that had suddenly spread across her cheeks was on account of him.

“I’m ready to sleep all alone in my bed now, I think.” She tried to yawn exaggeratedly, stretching her arms over her head, then she lost her balance and stumbled. Fenris reached an arm out to steady her before she could fall against him, a move he’d seen her use on Anders countless times during their early idiotic years of clumsy flirting.

“I think that is a good idea. May your sleep be undisturbed by any dreams tonight, Hawke.” He turned her shoulders away from him, and marched her toward the steps down to their cabins.

“I’ll be in my own room,” he said, when they reached her quarters. He didn’t want to risk anything happening between them in her compromised state.

“Well, if you happen to start dreaming again…” she turned, beaming at him like an idiot. A _drunken_ idiot, he had to keep reminding himself.

“Hawke,” he shook his head, trying to look stern and disappointed, but having a hard time hiding his smirk.

“Okay...nevermind! Sorry!!!” She put her hands up, feigning innocence. “You’re just really fucking wonderful, you know?”

He grunted out a frustrated curse in Tevene and shoved her the rest of the way into her cabin, shutting the door, before she could change his mind with another stupid smile. He heard a thump, a loud “FUCK!” and then her old raucous laughter, as he walked away, shaking his head, trying to convince himself that the things she’d said weren’t real and that the happiness he was feeling because of them was dangerous and misplaced. This was all Isabela’s fault. And she'd be the first to answer for it in the morning.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got really long, and with no fun Merribela fluff to break it up! Sorry. Hawke and Fenris just have a lot of stuff that they've needed to talk about for a month. Longer than that...six years?


	9. Baby Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has some nice chats with everyone. Everyone except Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wholesome. totally SFW.

\---

“What happened to _you_ last night, Fenris?” Isabela called out from the helm as Fenris joined them for the morning routine.

“What?” He shot back irritably. He hadn’t gotten drunk, but he certainly _felt_ hungover. _What a waste_.

“You look terrible, hun! It looks like you’ve been used as part of some kind of blood magic ritual.”

“Ummm…wow, Rivaini!” Varric had decided to join them earlier than usual instead of spending his morning writing in the galley. “I think it’ll always be too soon for _that_ joke.” He pretended to busy himself with some knot-tying nearby, but Fenris could _feel_ the dwarf’s interest in his current state as he awaited his response to Isabela’s prodding.

Fenris shook off the strangeness of it, assuming Varric was just getting more and more restless aboard the ship (almost everyone except their Captain seemed to be suffering from some form of sea-weariness), and was here once again to harass Isabela for a more solid plan.

“You _do_ look tired, lethallin. Should I do both anchors this morning?” Merrill asked sweetly, peering over at him as well with a hint of pinkness in her cheeks.

If he didn’t know her so well, hadn’t experienced firsthand the fierce competitiveness she hid behind those giant moony eyes, he’d have completely missed the sly little dig at his competence. He could appreciate _that_ , at least.

But he still hated all of their attention. It was the last thing he wanted after spending the night trying to figure out where he and Hawke stood and what, if anything, to do about it, given her drunken confessions and his ceaseless dreams of a beautiful life with her and Anders.

“No. I just…didn’t sleep much, I guess,” he shrugged.

“And where is _Hawke_?” Isabela smiled lasciviously at him.

 _Ah. So that’s what this is really about_ …

“Still in bed, I assume. Probably feeling terrible,” he said, pretending to ignore the implications. “She drank a lot of whiskey.”

“So it _was_ you and Hawke who made a mess of the galley supply room last night?”

There were only five of them aboard, and three of them were currently staring at him with bated breath like hungry dogs slobbering over an old, dessicated bone.

 _This is ridiculous_ , Fenris thought with a half-amused grin. For a moment, he also wondered how they’d decided Isabela would be their nosey spokesperson, as she was the most ridiculous of them all, but he quickly realized that she’d probably just nominated herself.

“We found a cabinet full of spirits that you all might be interested in. No paint-thinner or rubbing alcohol. Just liquor. Most of it even fit for human consumption, I would imagine, unlike the wine you keep bringing to dinner.”

“ _And_ …?” Isabela turned and gleamed at Varric, ready to collect on their latest bet.

Fenris took a deep breath, opened his eyes wide, and leaned toward her, while the other two leaned in as well, in anticipation of some salacious news.

He reverted suddenly back to his more typical aloofness and shrugged. “Nothing happened. So you might as well pay Varric whatever you owe him.”

Varric snickered, but he couldn’t hide the faint disappointment behind his laugh.

“Mmmhmm…” Isabela hummed, glaring at the dwarf.

“I need to talk to you, though…in _private_ ,” Fenris mumbled to her.

“Oh?” Isabela’s glare had quickly transformed into a look of concern for her friend. “Just help us set sail, and then I’m all yours! I’m hoping we’ll reach land in the next day or two so Fourth-and-Last-Mate Tethras over there won’t stage a mutiny.”

…

“Yes! You absolutely should have slept with her!” Isabela cried out in exasperation.

Varric had disappeared again below, having collected his winnings from Isabela, and Merrill had excused herself to the other end of the ship to “check on something,” while Fenris recounted the previous night to Isabela in hopes that she might be able to help him make sense of things. Though her advice often felt cursed, she understood him in ways none of the others really could.

“That’s not at all what I asked,” he huffed, impatiently.

“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m right, though.”

“You of all people know what a difficult, complicated mess this is for me. I _hardly_ think that -- ”

“Yes, yes...I know. It’s terrifying. The thought of someone you’ve been pining for for more than half a decade admitting that they feel something for you, too, and at the same time also being totally aware of and sympathetic to your grief, your fears and limitations. Just _awful,_  huh?”

“She has _always_ been respectful. Apologetic, even,” he sighed. “Which is part of the problem.”

“Well, you’ve never exactly given her much else to work with, you know...other than sexy, smoldering grumpiness. Can you blame her for being overly cautious about offending you?”

“But it’s -- I can’t...I don’t know.” He pulled his hands up to his face and dragged them down his cheeks, pulling the exhausted tension out of his jaw, and past the buzzing marks on his neck, trying to force the muscles and lyrium there to relax, too.

He looked up at her, his eyebrows furrowed together in dismay, beseeching her for some kind of help they both knew she couldn’t give.

“I _just_ want…” he started again, then shook his head and looked back down at the cursed lyrium etched onto his hands.

“I know. Andraste’s puckered arsehole, do I know…” Isabela sighed, glancing across the deck of the ship toward her own seemingly-impossible happily-ever-after.

She turned back toward him. “Fenris, you don’t need to rush anything. It might actually do Hawke some good to learn to be patient. And she’ll do it. For you. Because you _are_ worth it. Just...try not to shove her away?”

It was an oddly earnest plea coming from her. She usually expressed herself through exaggerated lewdness, obnoxious winks and crude exhortations when things ran the risk of getting too serious. It threw him off. She really _was_ invested in them. And not just monetarily.

“But I can tell this is difficult for her, too. These dreams are a reminder of what she’s lost, and I don’t want to hurt her any more than she is already hurting.”

“Ok, but can you _maybe_ consider the possibility that she might also find hope from these dreams in building something with you? Out of the ashes, so to speak...or, well, _literally_ , I suppose.”

Isabela chuckled weakly at her own little joke, but her gaze went back to Merrill, who was pacing back and forth from starboard to port side, gesturing wildly as she talked to herself about Maker-knows-what.

“Do you think Merrill would be happier living with other elves? Maybe once everything’s settled, she’ll want to reach out to a new clan, or maybe move into another alienage?”

“No,” he said, as though it was the stupidest question she’d ever asked, and _Maker_ , had she asked some idiotic questions. “She never liked living in the alienage. You know this.”

“But she was so committed to her people before. To uncovering their old ways and all that stuff. It broke her heart when they disowned her, when her Keeper died. Why would she want to spend her time with a washed-up old pirate like me? I mean...I _steal_ ancient sacred artifacts. She attempts to restore them.”

“Do you really think she’d rather just _find some elves_ to live with? Are we really still having this conversation?”

“I mean... _are_ we?” She looked pointedly back to him again, one eyebrow cocked accusingly.

“Fenedhis! It’s completely different!”

“Tell me how again, please? Because I’m not sure I understand how your fear of a relationship with Hawke is any different from mine with Merrill. And you seem pretty convinced I’m the only one being ridiculous about it.”

“With Hawke, it just seems... _i_ _nappropriate_. To entertain these thoughts of anything more than friendship with her just because of the _situation_ we find ourselves in when there was nothing between us there before.”

Isabela tilter her head at him. “Oh, c’mon now, hun…”

“One-sided infatuation and unspoken feelings hardly count. Especially when one of the people blows himself up.”

“I think they count a great deal. And I don’t think it was ever as one-sided as you think.”

“She is still grieving and she was intoxicated last night, so what she said probably meant nothing.”

“You _know_ that’s not true. And grief brings people together, hun. It’s super romantic. It’s like one of the most popular genres of smut. Right up there with bed-sharing, hate-fucking, and eels. I feel like you two could easily check off all of those boxes if you get a little creative.”

“ _Eels_?”

“I never showed you the eel stuff? I got this filthy little book, with drawings, from the Black Emporium years ago. Probably from Tevinter, originally. Sent it to Bethany in the Circle once I was done with it. She always gets all my best smut, and has never returned any of it! Always claims it gets ‘stolen’ or ‘confiscated…’ I can’t _believe_ I never showed you the eel stuff before I sent it off to that little trollop!”

Fenris put his hands up in front of him and shook his head. “Please, I don’t want to know anymore.”

“Well, fine! Merrill would have gotten a kick out of it, at least. _Fuck_ , I love her.”

“But have you _told_ her…?”

“ _NO_! I mean, shut up. Soon…”

“Mmhmmmm…”

“She’s been feeling really shitty since we hit the crosswinds and the rougher seas of the Amaranthine. Maybe once we dock somewhere? I’d hate for my beautiful, dramatic declaration of love for her to be ruined by sea-sickness.”

“Right…”

“Don’t give me that look! You and _your_ fear masquerading as gentlemanliness just cost me five sovereigns!”

“You know me better than that. It’s your own fault for making such a terrible wager.”

“I was betting on _Hawke_ , not you…and maybe I wanted to take a chance on _love_ for a change?”

He narrowed his eyes at her and smiled. “You’re allowing _feelings_ to get in the way of your gambling?”

“Wow…how dare you!”

“ _Baby steps_ , I believe, you once said to me. Right before dumping an entire pot of warm honey over my head and holding me down while it dripped down my face and neck and back.” He shuddered.

“Aye…” she sighed. “That was one of my better ones, wasn’t it?”

He thought for a moment. “Actually...? Yes.”

...

After speaking with Isabela, Fenris felt no less certain of himself or of Hawke’s feelings for him than when he had emerged, sleep-deprived and miserable, earlier that morning. He had known what Isabela would say, and he knew the limits to her counsel, but at least he knew that she was still rooting for them. And he _had_ resolved to at least have a conversation with Hawke about it. A conscious, sober conversation. The thought of this was still utterly terrifying, of course.

Thankfully, Merrill, Varric, and even Isabela had at least stopped eyeballing him with such interest, and nobody subjected Hawke to the same expectant gazes or line of questioning that he’d had to suffer through when she finally emerged from her cabin, a groggy, cranky, hungover mess, offering to help set sail a full two hours after anyone had needed her, and sighing in relief when she realized she could immediately head back down below deck, cursing the sun and swearing she was never coming up while it was daylight ever again. Varric would find her, and he was as good a person as any to nurse a hangover with. He had years of experience dealing with the after-effects of Hawke’s overindulgences, specifically. Isabela turned more of her attention to the sailing than usual, determined to make good on her promise to Varric out of spite, and Fenris and Merrill stayed up above to help in case of any sudden need to adjust the sails or the rigging.

They’d been sitting together, staring out at the sea, monitoring the nets Varric had rigged up off the back of the ship for catching fish (he hadn’t really been nearly as useless as Isabela always insisted). Merrill was being unusually quiet, which left Fenris the dreaded task of striking up a conversation.

“Isabela mentioned you’ve been suffering from sea-sickness.”

A perfect conversation-starter, reminding someone of their own misery...

“Oh, it’s nothing.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Just a bit queasy sometimes, you know? You’d think I’d be used to it by now, after a month, but…” She let out a small, strangled laugh. “...the sea keeps changing!”

“Would you like me to make you some tea? I seem to recall _someone_ claiming it can settle an upset stomach as they attempted to convert me to tea-drinking.”

“Oh, Fenris! You don’t have to…” she exclaimed, beaming at him, already grateful for the consideration.

“We’re long overdue, though, aren’t we?” He smiled apologetically.

They’d kept their weekly tea appointments almost religiously for the past three years, ever since Merrill had shown up at Danarius’ mansion with a tea set as a “very late Housewarming gift” and a look of fierce determination on her face. After Marethari’s death, and the last, thin, strained threads of connection to her clan had been severed, she’d desperately needed some kind of normal, routine social life, aside from the often violent adventuring that they all were involved in. Fenris came to appreciate the socialization, and her friendship, of course, though he never learned to enjoy the tea. But in the past tumultuous month, this was the first he’d even thought about it.

“I believe it was my turn to host, anyway,” he said.

“But I don’t think there’s any tea on board. Not exactly very _piratey_ , is it?”

“I think I saw some dried herbs in the kitchen when Hawke and I were ransacking it last night. Ginger? Peppermint? I doubt Castillon and his men kept chamomile on hand, but I’ll look…”

“Either of those...or both...would be wonderful!” She clapped her hands together excitedly. Nothing got Merrill quite so delighted as a tea party.

“Good. I’ll make enough for Hawke, too, who is probably also feeling a little ‘queasy,’ though I don’t suppose she’ll drink any.”

Merrill laughed. “None of you enjoy it, I know. But I always did appreciate how _you_ humored me, at least.”

“What about Anders?”

“Yes. He enjoyed his tea, too, didn’t he?” She peered at Fenris curiously.

“Mmhm. Earl grey…” Fenris felt the urge to sniff the fabric tied around his wrist, to see if the mage’s scent still lingered there. He’d made him tea exactly once, when Hawke had sent him to take a look at a wound Fenris was too stubborn to go see him about at the clinic. Fenris had been determined to show the mage, out of spite, mostly, that he could be a good host, but it had been the beginning of a begrudgingly kinder relationship between them.

“You loved him very much, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell him so?”

Merrill always had a way of asking the most personal questions as though she were asking about the weather, and talking about the weather as though it was the most intimate or awe-inspiring topic of conversation. It was disarming, at least, and Fenris had learned long ago that she was usually just very earnestly interested in almost everything.

“I was scared. I regret that now, of course.”

“I suppose love _is_ very frightening.”

“Indeed.”

He was staring out at the fishing nets. He hated fish, and yet, here he was. No one had commanded him or Merrill to provide their next meal. It was an act of love, he realized. The quiet, small kind. And he hated tea, too, but he'd made it bi-weekly for the little elf woman he had once called a 'witch.' Yes, there was still duty, obligation, being dragged around to do things and to strange places he’d rather not go...and all of that could sometimes feel horrifyingly familiar. But he’d _chosen_ these obligations. To his friends. Because he loved them. Because he had allowed himself the _freedom_ to love them. And to be loved by them in return. They felt a sense of duty and obligation to him, as well. And that was not so frightening, after all. None of this _needed_ to be so hard. They all had been learning how to love and care for each other for years. And now, with Anders gone, there were gaps to fill in. But love could do that, too, he supposed.

“Merrill…”

“Lethallin?”

“Isabela loves you. You know that, right?”

“I do.” Merrill nodded, a wistful smile creeping across her face. “She does. I know. I love her, too.”

“Good.”

“You love Hawke, too, right?” She asked more brightly.

“I...yes. I suppose I do.” There was really no _supposing_ about it, but they both knew this.

“Does _she_ know?”

“I think so.”

“You should make sure of it!”

“You’re right…” he sighed.

“I _know_!” Then, in a voice that suddenly sounded weak and tremulous, “Now, about that tea…”

Fenris looked up to see that she had turned a sickly shade of green, and her wide eyes had somehow grown even wider.

“Kaffas! Right! I shall return shortly!”

“I’ll just be here, then...” Merrill managed to whimper, before turning away from him to hang her head over the side of the ship, careful not to empty the contents of her stomach onto their food supply.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...I had about five things that needed to happen in this chapter, but none of them did. Because MERRILL! I realized that I had this beautiful friendship between Fenris and Merrill in my head canon (and I have a bunch of little vignettes/flashbacks for them which will hopefully someday end up in the Prologue) and had done absolutely nothing with it so far in this section. So while Hawke is busy nursing her hangover, Fenris is gonna make Merrill some tea, damnit. (THIS THING IS GOING TO BE 1000 MORE CHAPTERS AT THIS PACE AND I'M SO SORRY!)


	10. For Now...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Fenris finally talk about their feelings as sober, conscious adults.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just sleeping! (seriously, no sex)

\---

A knock at the door. Short, terse, hurried. She knew who it was, but before she could scramble out of bed to answer it, the door creaked open, a thin column of dim lantern light streaming in from the hall.

“Hawke.”

“Fenris?” She was trying not to sound too relieved that he’d decided to come back after what a drunken idiot she’d been the night before.

She’d been quiet at dinner, poking disappointedly at the fish he and Merrill had hauled in, while Isabela waxed poetically about what a shithole Brandel’s Reach was. She had seemed excited to reassert her presence among the raiders there, showing up victorious with the ship that had belonged to her former boss. Varric seemed much less enthused about such a big public debut, despite Isabela’s assurances that the Templars and the Chantry held no authority among _her_ people. Fenris had been watching Hawke carefully, trying to figure out if her silence was indicative of regret about the things she’d said to him after half a bottle of whiskey.

“Are you still awake?”

“Yes.”

“Fully awake?”

Hawke laughed. “Yes, Fenris. _Fully_ awake. And sober.”

“I -- um...” It was his turn to try not to seem too... _something_. It was unlike him to not know exactly what to say once he’d decided it was worth saying.

“You can come in...” This felt like a ridiculous statement when they’d been sharing the room almost every night for a month. But after Hawke had embarrassed herself again, she wasn’t sure what the arrangement would be from here on out. “ _Please_ come in?”

The door opened a little wider and Fenris slipped inside before closing it gently behind him. Hawke sat up and fumbled in the dark to find a match to light the little oil lamp on the table next to her bunk.

She held it up, trying to light the rest of the room to see him, but Fenris was still fretting by the door, out of the range of the lamplight, trying to collect himself, to fight the urge he had to open the door back up and flee.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is this about last night? I’m sorry. I was being horrible, I’m sure.”

“No, don’t…” He turned toward her, his face twisted into an irritated grimace at her apology. But when his eyes met hers, glowing in the gentle light, his features softened. “Please, don’t apologize.”

“Okay. Fine. I’m _not at all_ sorry for getting drunk and making an ass of myself last night.”

“How are you feeling now?”

“Better, I guess. Thank you for that tea earlier. Varric made me drink some. I hated it. But it worked to settle my stomach for a bit, at least.”

“You can thank Merrill. It was her recipe.”

“Is she feeling any less sea-sick?”

“I think so.”

“Good. I’m a sympathy puker, and seeing her all green and queasy lately has started to rub off on me, I fear. Or perhaps, it’s just the existential dread...”

“Are you sure it wasn’t just the copious amounts of alcohol you drank last night?” He tried to hide the smugness in his grin.

“Maybe. I’ve never had a hangover come and go like this, though. Perhaps I’m just getting too old for this shit…or maybe my tolerance is just low because we haven’t had enough exciting and/or horrible things to get drunk about since we left Kirkwall...or maybe it’s all the fish...”

“Hawke…” He knew he could have allowed her to just go on, and it would’ve amused him to listen. To fall asleep across the room from her as she pontificated and rambled, with the occasional clever quip of his interjected for a laugh. They could’ve just resumed whatever-it-was that had become their normal routine, and pretended there weren’t dozens of unanswered questions and unresolved feelings between them.

But Fenris remembered his conversation with Merrill earlier that day. He remembered how he’d told Isabela not to wait too long to tell Merrill how she felt, too. He remembered the piece of Anders he kept tied around his wrist as a reminder of missed opportunities and his unexplored love for the mage. A love he realized now he could have shared with Hawke. And he was tired of the uncertainty. If they landed somewhere tomorrow, a promise Isabela seemed strangely determined to keep, what would their future look like? He needed her to know, at the very least, that he wished to stay by her side, if she would have him there.

“Fenris…?” Hawke had been trying to be very patient, as she waited through his silence.

He finally cleared his throat. “You said some things last night.”

She cringed. “I don’t want to ask, but I suppose I should…” She took a deep breath, preparing herself to be mortified. “What did I say?”

“Well, that you wanted to sleep with me, for one.”

“Oof.” It was embarrassing, but not untrue. “I know I’m not supposed to apologize, but --”

“And that you were falling in love with me,” he interjected before she could.

“Yes, well…”

It was too dark to tell for sure, but he swore he could see a rosey blush spreading from her cheeks and across her nose, as she lowered her eyes, staring into the glowing wick of the lamp she was holding. The same blush he’d seen last night, and tried to dismiss as a symptom of her drunkenness. Perhaps now it was just the soft low light of the lamp playing tricks.

He waited. For a long time. Far longer than it would have taken for her to formulate a denial, an explanation, another apology, an awkward joke...anything to confirm what he feared, that she wanted to take it back somehow.

But when nothing like that came, he finally took a deep breath and huffed out, “I would like to try something. With you. If you’ll permit it.”

“Are you trying to seduce me, Fenris? While awake?!” She chuckled weakly. She was trying to sound playful, teasing, but it was impossible to hide her nervousness. She wasn’t nearly as good as Isabela at hiding her feelings behind jokes like this. She had never been forced to learn how to do it as a matter of survival.

“Maybe. But that may still be a very long way off,” he mused. At least sensing her nervousness made him feel a little less self-conscious about his own.

“What, then?”

“I just want to try sleeping next to you. That is all. For now. And if nothing terrible happens...”

“Ok.” She spared him having to explain the rest, hoping she didn’t sound too excited...or disappointed.

This felt so very familiar, now that she thought about it. It had been Justice who had tried to warn Anders about pursuing a relationship with her before, but Fenris had his own internalized sense of guilt and fear and past trauma that made him hesitate. It certainly wasn’t Justice, anyway. Sort of the antithesis of that, in fact. Fenris seemed to feel that he didn’t _deserve_ to want something that might result in his own happiness, or that physical affection had been ruined for him. And that wasn’t fair or just at all.

“ _Is_ it okay? You can say no if it is too much, or too little. I will not...think any less of you, Hawke, if this isn’t what you want.”

“Fenris…” she groaned, then took a deep breath. “I would rather you sleep next to me than on the other side of the room. And I’d rather you sleep on the opposite side of the room than down the hall in a separate room. And I’d rather you be on this cursed ship with me than anywhere else in the blighted world.” She stopped, strangely out of breath. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yes. I suppose it does.”

She could hear the little smile of relief that had crept across his features more than she could really see it in the dim light. It was a thing that she’d always treasured for its rarity for as long as she’d known him, but something she’d grown especially fond of in these past few weeks as it had begun to reveal itself to her more and more. It had become almost _familiar_ , comforting, even. And so few things seemed to bring her comfort lately.

“Good.” It was settled then. “Is that what you needed to know?”

“Yes. Well, for now.”

“For now,” she repeated, nodding, trying not to say anymore that might ruin this delicate truce between them.

As he shuffled the rest of the way across the room toward her, she tried to calm herself. To breathe normally. To steady her pounding heart, which seemed to be the loudest thing on the entire ship, if not the whole of the Amaranthine. To suppress the recent memories of him beneath her, or of him pressing himself against her back while muttering heartbreakingly sweet things in his sleep, or of his lips crashing against hers full of misguided anger and passion six whole years ago. She’d tried so hard to banish those things, believing them unwelcome, unrequited...mistakes. Now she found herself almost nauseous from the flood of them rushing back through her body and her mind.

 _Get it together, Marian..._ she scolded herself. She was not some lovestruck teenager. She was a grown-ass woman. And it was just sleeping. And this was Fenris. And she knew that if there was to be anything more than friendship between them, it would have to be on his terms. But then she recalled his response to her drunken solicitations the night before. _Is that all you would want it to be?_ And her face went red. _Of course not._ She turned away from him as he approached, burying her face in her pillow. _Maker, spare me!_ she silently begged. Marian Hawke was going to need to learn self-control.

He lifted the blanket, and she held her breath, waiting to feel the warmth of him beside her. But he set it back down again, patting it and smoothing it out, before laying down on top of it next to her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she managed to say through her pillow.

“I think, given our history, it’s better that we keep _something_ between us.”

 _Space_. She was beginning to realize just what this meant to him. It wasn’t just an aversion to touch, though he had plenty of reasons for that. It wasn’t so much about distance. Not detachment or avoidance. Just...space. Space was freedom to Fenris. Freedom to think, to consider, to decide, to move, to reconsider, to change his mind. To breathe.

After laying there next to her in thoughtful silence for what felt like a lifetime, he spoke, “I’ve also been thinking about what you said. About sharing the dreams, and I think there might actually be something to it.”

Hawke breathed, realizing she hadn’t been, and let out a strangled laugh. “I was just drunkenly trying to get you to sleep with me, Fenris. I really have no idea how dreams and the Fade work,” she confessed, as if this was really news to him at all.

“I know that. And neither do I. But what if my lyrium _is_ somehow affecting this? By proximity? Like that lyrium idol Varric’s brother brought back from the Deep Roads?”

She lifted her head up from her pillow and twisted around to look at him in disbelief. “I hardly think you’re as much of a danger to me, or to society, as that awful thing.”

“You and Isabela both...but that’s not exactly what I mean.”

“If Varric thought you were a problem, he’d have shot you through with his crossbow awhile ago. And Merrill…”

“Yes, her judgment has _always_ been completely sound, hasn’t it?”

He felt instantly guilty for this snide comment, and Hawke’s quick glare did not help. But mercifully, she was willing to brush it aside.

“If you believe this is dangerous, then why are you lying here next to me now?” She turned and smiled impishly at him, having regained her composure enough to act more like her cheeky self. She propped herself up on her elbow, careful not to take up any more space than she already was.

“Perhaps I just have a reckless disregard for your well-being?”

She laughed. “You know I have a history of falling madly in love with people who insist they are ‘dangerous’ or ‘no good’ for me, right?”

“I know that you are stubborn and heedless.”

Her voice dropped lower, quieter, to almost a whisper. “This is nice, though. Right?”

He stopped trying to match wits with her, and considered her question carefully. Her instinct at his hesitation was to assume she’d said something wrong, but she was _trying_ to fight against those instincts, to allow him space without distance. And without apologies.

“Yes.”

“I trust you, Fenris,” she blurted out.

“You shouldn’t.” He paused. “But thank you.”

“Do _you_ trust _me_?”

“Hopelessly…to my utter ruin, probably.”

“You’re so fucking dramatic,” she snorted. “Worse than Anders, even, you know that?”

He smiled. He decided to take this as a compliment, but the smile was fleeting. “You’re not at all afraid that I will hurt you? That _this_ could end up hurting you? I mean, these dreams...all of this is pretty difficult, isn’t it?”

“No. I’ve never been afraid of that. I _have_ always worried about hurting _you_ , though. But I’m starting to realize that may not have been the best approach to our friendship. And as for the dreams, if they bring us closer together...I guess that’s something good to come out of this?”

“Yes, I suppose. But I wish I could just…”

He reached over suddenly and brushed a piece of hair out of her face with a frustrated grunt. It had been bothering him ever since she turned to face him and it had fallen across the bridge of her nose, obscuring his view. He wanted to see her, to appreciate the details of her face, her eyes, especially. He’d had such few opportunities to be this close to her, not for any lack of trying on her part, of course, but he intended to make good use of it, just in case she suddenly changed her mind about all of this, and all he’d have left were his dreams.

She grimaced, surprised by his touch and embarrassed with all of his attention suddenly so focused on her, unable to hide behind her unkempt bangs.

 _Hypocrite_ , he thought with amusement, completely forgetting whatever fretful thing he was trying to argue before this distraction. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Yes, well…you _are_ \--”

“Don’t say it.”

“What?”

“What you were about to say. Unless you’re prepared to deal with the consequences.”

“That you are...in need of a haircut?” He smirked. “And maybe a bath, too?”

Hawke laughed. “Ok, that’s alright, I guess.”

Fenris smiled. “If it’s any consolation, I imagine we all are.”

“I can’t wait to get to wherever we’re going and find an inn. Mostly just to eat something besides fish, but a bath and a trim would be nice, too.”

“Mmm…”

“And a bigger bed than this…” She yawned and stretched her arms up over her head, nearly shoving him out of the bed before catching herself and pulling her arms back suddenly.

“That _would_ be nice,” he murmured, allowing the sensation of her touch, just a little brush of her elbow against his shoulder, to wash over him, trying to resist his usual reactions.

“Oh, you presume I’d invite you to share it with me?” She turned, feigning some kind of offense, more careful this time not to touch him.

Fenris laughed. “Perish the thought!”

“Now the bath, on the other hand…”

“Sleep sounds better right now.”

“Right. Just sleeping.”

“Good night, Hawke.” He turned away from her, nudging his back up against her side through the blanket.

It was surprising and...delightful, and she wanted to put an arm around him, or to run her fingers through his hair, or to kiss the back of his neck, his shoulders, or just to...touch him. Any part of him, really. To make sure this wasn’t just another cursed dream. But she thought better of these urges and tried just to be content with him sleeping beside her.

That night, neither of them dreamed of Anders or their children. Though the dream seemed to fade beyond recollection as soon as she awoke, Hawke could’ve sworn she’d gotten visions of a small Elven boy, with dark, exquisitely-braided hair and Fenris’ beautiful emerald eyes. He was snuggled up between a much younger-looking Varania, whose dark auburn hair was also braided, and an Elven woman she didn’t recognize, except for the clear familial similarities between herself and the two children she held close to her as they slept. They appeared to be in a crowded bunk, surrounded by half a dozen other crowded bunks in the bowels of a ship, judging by the swaying of the lanterns and the general, rolling sensation that was suddenly making Hawke very nauseous again, even in her sleep.

It was enough to wake her, and the dream was banished almost entirely from her consciousness as she lurched out of bed, in search of something to catch whatever was quickly rising up into her throat.

“Hawke?” Fenris called out in the direction of her sudden heaving.

“Just sea-sick...don’t worry…” she managed to gasp before retching again into the chamber pot. “Found a bucket!”

“You’ve never been sea-sick before,” he said, slowing rising out of the bed to see if there was anything he might be able to do to help.

“Well, I dunno, then...maybe the sea is different here? Or maybe dinner isn’t agreeing with me.” The thought of fish wasn’t helping her to control her gag reflex, and the thought of him coming over to her mid-vomit wasn’t all that appealing, either.

“Isabela did mention that Merrill had been especially affected by the change in winds and currents as we’d sailed into the Amaranthine,” he offered, a conciliatory explanation, as he reached her side.

“That must be it,” she muttered quickly, before retching again and filling the pail with whatever was left in her stomach.

Fenris gingerly placed a hand on her back as she stood hunched over the bucket. A few more empty heaves and then she straightened up against the warmth of his palm.

“Feel better?”

“I...yes. I think so.”

“Good. Come back to bed?”

“Wow. That’s -- “

“What?”

“Really _nice_ to hear.” Especially in _his_ deep, gravelly, voice, with his hand warm and quietly resting against her, guiding her back to bed without any of the usual hesitation or fretting between them. She could get used to this. Even if it was _just_ this. For now.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't believe these two beat Isabela and Merrill to the DTR talk.

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna try to use some deep quote about the sea in the title or summary like some of yall are so damn good at, but I found this Isak Dinesen (Karen Blixen) quote, “The cure for anything is salt water, sweat, tears, or the sea," and I just can imagine Hawke's reaction to this, like:
> 
> "Saltwater cures everything..." my ass! <\--Hawke, probably


End file.
